THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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BIRD   OF  TIME 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

BEING   CONVERSATIONS   WITH   EGERIA 

BY 
MRS.   WILSON    WOODROW 


NEW  YORK 

McCLURE,   PHILLIPS  &  CO. 
MCMVII 


Copyright,  1907,  by  McClure,  Phillips  $  Co. 
Published,  March,  1907,  N 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  WOMAN  OF  FIFTY   .       .  .       3 

II.  THE  QUALITY  OF  CHARM       .  .     27 

III.  THE  PKIDE  OF  THE  EYE        .  .     49 

IV.  THE  FEMININE  TEMPERAMENT  .     71 
V.  THE  DAUGHTERS  OF  MISFORTUNE     89 

VI.  WHAT  WOMEN  LIKE  TO  READ  .   117 

VII.  WORK  vs.  BEAUTY   ....   139 

VIII.  A  GAME  OF  BRIDGE        .       .  .161 

IX.  Is  LOVE  ENOUGH?    .        .        .  .183 

X.  THE  SUPREME  INTEREST         .  .  207 

XI.  THE  INTELLECTUAL  WOMAN  .  .  225 

XII.  THE  ART  OF  GIVING       .       .  .  247 

XIII.  CONCLUSION  .  265 


THE    WOMAN    OF   FIFTY 


"Look,  lady,  where  yon  river  winds  its  line 

Toward  sunset,  and  receives  on  breast  and  face 
The  splendor  of  fair  life:  to  be  divine, 

'Tis  nature  bids  you  be  to  nature  true, 
Flowing  with  beauty,  lending  earth  your  grace, 
Reflecting  heaven  in  clearness  you." 

GEORGE  MEREDITH. 


CHAPTER    ONE 
THE  WOMAN  OF  FIFTY 

IT  was  Egeria's  birthday  and  she  had  been 
having  a  garden  party  to  celebrate  the 
event.  Out  upon  the  closely  cropped  green 
lawn  there  were  tents  and  marquees;  there 
were  music  and  the  hum  of  voices ;  there  were 
women  in  charming  frocks  and  plenty  of 
men;  but  now  the  groups  were  rapidly  thin- 
ning and  only  a  few  of  Egeria's  "  friends  of 
the  soul "  had  remained. 

"  Not  an  ice,  thank  you,"  she  was  saying 
to  the  Commonplace  Man  from  the  depths  of 
a  wicker  chair,  "  a  cup  of  tea.  You  know  how 
I  like  it,  very  hot  and  with  three  thick  slices 
of  lemon." 

Egeria,  a  painter  of  distinction,  was  a 
slender  woman  with  light  hair  of  no  par- 
ticular tint  and  sea-green  eyes.  Her  features 
were  anything  but  classic,  and  her  pale  face 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

was  slightly  tanned  by  much  outdoor  living, 
for  she  was  the  possessor  of  a  wonderful,  old- 
fashioned  garden;  a  sweet,  sedate,  secluded 
garden  with  the  leisure  and  reserve  of  a  by- 
gone day.  One  felt  sure  that  no  stolid  gar- 
dener, hired  temporarily  for  a  month  or  a 
year,  had  ever  toiled  in  it  unwillingly.  No 
indeed!  For  forty  years  the  same  bent, 
hardy  old  fellow  had  spaded  and  hoed  and 
weeded  the  beds,  and  neither  he  nor  his  pred- 
ecessors had  lacked  assistance;  for  every 
bush  and  shrub  had  been  tended  by  the  deli- 
cate hands  of  each  succeeding  mistress  of  the 
place.  For  a  hundred  springs  each  plant 
had  pushed  its  way  through  the  sod,  had  put 
forth  its  leaves  and  bloomed  with  the  con- 
fidence of  an  eager  welcome;  and  because 
each  succeeding  mistress  had  loved  the  gar- 
den well  and  had  left  it  reluctantly,  Egeria 
always  affirms  that  there  are  ghosts  there. 
She  says  that  on  Sunday  mornings,  when  the 
church  bells  ring,  there  is  the  soft  rustle  of 
silk  over  the  borders,  and  a  lace  veil  falls 
over  the  demure  face  of  a  lovely  lady  as  she 
stoops  to  gather  a  sprig  of  balsam  and 


THE  WOMAN  OF  FIFTY 

places  it  between  the  leaves  of  her  hymn 
book. 

Some  illusion  of  light  and  shade — the  ef- 
fect of  sunlight  through  flickering  leaves? 
Nonsense. 

And  when  the  mignonette  gives  out  its  per- 
fume in  the  twilight,  a  pale  shape  with  dis- 
creetly lowered  eyelids  glides  down  the  paths ; 
gauzes  float  about  her,  a  scarf  shields  her 
slender  shoulders. 

The  mist  of  white  clematis  flowers?  Never. 
And  Egeria  says  that  if  you  rise  very  early 
you  may  see  a  girlish  shape  flying  through 
the  roses  to  meet  the  youth  at  the  end  of  the 
pink  and  crimson  lane.  The  wind  of  dawn 
blows  from  the  east,  the  sun  rises  and  the 
rose  petals  fall  as  the  two  kiss  and  vanish. 
The  last  sweet  dream  before  waking?  Absurd. 

But  it  was  early  autumn  now,  and  the 
roses  had  long  faded.  Instead  there  was  the 
scarlet  insolence  of  salvias,  the  sunshine  of 
golden  glow,  the  imperial  purple  of  asters ; 
and  the  garden  had  thrown  off  its  air  of  se- 
rene reserve  and  gentle  melancholy,  and  each 
flower  and  each  tendril  of  vine  thrilled  with 
[5] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

a  pagan  rapture  to  the  warmth  of  the  sun 
and  the  strength  of  the  breeze. 

"  How  marvelously  fitting,"  said  the  Poet 
dreamily,  brushing  one  long  lock  from  his 
brow,  "  for  you  to  be  born  in  the  autumn, 
Madame  Egeria.  You  yourself  typify  the 
golden  September." 

"  Speaking  of  birthdays,"  said  the  Editor 
of  a  woman's  magazine,  with  a  professional 
note  in  his  voice  and  a  professional  gleam 
in  his  eye,  "  what  do  you  consider  the  most 
perfect  age  for  a  woman  ?  " 

"  Fifty,"  replied  Egeria  without  hesita- 
tion. 

There  was  a  chorus  of  laughter. 

"  I'd  as  lief  be  a  thousand  as  fifty,"  said 
Castilia,  who  was  twenty-five,  dark  as  a 
moonless  midnight,  with  the  bloom  of  a  peach 
on  the  south  side  of  a  sunny  wall. 

"  The  Bird  of  Time  has  but  a  little  way 
to  flutter  when  one  is  fifty,"  murmured  the 
Poet. 

"  Fifty,"  repeated  Egeria  stoutly.  "  I  said 
fifty,  and  I  meant  it.  It  is  the  age  of  realiza- 
tion.  The  woman  of  fifty   should  have  lost 
[6] 


THE  WOMAN  OF  FIFTY 

nothing  and  have  gained  everything.  The 
flesh  may  no  longer  conceal  the  soul;  char- 
acter must  reveal  itself." 

"  In  wrinkles  and  gray  locks,"  scoffed 
Castilia. 

"Not  at  all,"  Egeria  dissented.  "It  is 
usually  conceded  by  wrinkle  specialists  that 
those  banes  come  from  the  indulgence  of 
moods — temper,  discontent,  and  worry.  But 
think,  Castilia,  of  the  several  women  of  fifty 
we  know.  Think  of  Estelle,  to  whom  you  just 
said  good-by — charming  and  beautiful,  and 
young  in  heart  and  appearance.  Of  course, 
her  face  does  not  exhibit  the  unwritten  page 
of  lovely  sixteen;  but  it  has  none  of  the 
wrinkles  you  so  dread,  only  the  sensitive, 
beautiful  lines  of  character,  thought,  expe- 
rience, and  sympathy." 

"  Indian  Summer's  Lady,"  murmured  the 
Poet. 

Egeria  smiled  gratefully  at  him.  "  What 
a  charming  phrase !  " 

"  Except  that  it  reminds  one  that  to  wear 
it,  one  must  be  in  the  Autumn  of  life,"  ob- 
jected Castilia,  "Indian  Summer's  Lady! 

m 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

The  last  flash  in  Summer's  pan — then  the 
long  cold  winter." 

Egeria  lifted  her  head  in  radiant  defiance. 
"  There  need  be  no  long,  cold  winter.  There 
is  no  longer,  Thank  Goodness!  any  definite 
line  marking  the  boundary  between  youth 
and  old  age.  Why,  the  woman  who  to-day 
is  celebrated  for  distinctive  charm  and 
beauty,  ripe  views,  disciplined  intellect,  cul- 
tivated and  manifold  gifts,  would,  forty 
years  ago,  have  been  relegated  to  the  heavy 
ranks  of  the  dowagers  and  grandmothers; 
forced  by  the  stern  conventions  of  prevailing 
opinion  to  retire  from  the  game  just  as  she 
had  gained  a  mastery  of  the  rules." 

"  Now  that,"  said  the  Editor,  "  is  a  ques- 
tion which  might  elicit  considerable  interest- 
ing discussion  in  my  magazine.  Why  are  the 
typical  modern  women  of  to-day  twenty  years 
younger  in  manners,  dress  and  appearance 
than  were  their  grandmothers  at  the  same 
age  ?  "  He  had  his  eyes  fixed  meditatively 
upon  Castilia  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  do  not  know,  I'm  sure,"  she  replied, 
shaking  her  dark  head.  "  Ask  Egeria.  She  is 

[8] 


THE  WOMAN  OF  FIFTY 

always  ready  to  discuss  any  subject,  no  mat- 
ter whether  -she  knows  anything  about  it  or 
not." 

"  I  do  not  think  that  is  a  very  hard  ques- 
tion," returned  Egeria.  "  You  must  remem- 
ber that  in  those  days  forty  was  a  very  re- 
spectable age,  if  viewed  from  the  matronly 
standpoint;  but  at  fifty,  one  prepared  for 
death.  The  woman  who  had  reached  that 
age  must  smooth  back  her  locks  under  a 
snowy  cap,  crush  her  heart's  aspirations  un- 
der the  juggernaut  car  of  convention,  adopt 
garments  suitable  to  her  age;  rich  perhaps, 
but  dark  and  unbecoming;  and  keep  ever 
before  her  mind  the  fact  that  she  was  an  old 
woman  until  in  very  truth  she  was.  Who 
would  not  be,  if  all  of  one's  interests  were 
supposed  to  center  in  the  household,  the  poor, 
needlework  and  the  biographies  of  famous 
divines  and  missionaries." 

"  Still,  after  all,"  argued  the  Judge,  "  is 
that  not  better  than  that  saddest  of  all  spec- 
tacles— a  woman  of  age,  but  no  dignity,  who 
endeavors  to  conceal  her  gray  hairs  and 
wrinkles  under  a  garish  mask  of  youth  ?  " 
[9] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

"  Infinitely  better,"  agreed  Egeria ;  "  but 
on  the  other  hand,  why  should  middle  life 
appropriate  the  trappings  of  age?  Does  In- 
dian Summer  borrow  Winter's  ice  and  snow? 
And  a  healthy  woman  of  fifty  with  varied 
interests  should  be  typical  of  that  mellow 
season  of  sunshine  and  ripened  stores,"  smil- 
ing at  the  Poet,  who  sat  hugging  his  knees 
at  her  feet. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  favorite  heroine  of 
the  elder  novelists?  She  was  always  beautiful 
seventeen ;  and  her  antithesis  and  foil  was  the 
snubbed,  spinster  governess  invariably  de- 
scribed as  nine-and-twenty,  with  lines  of  age 
and  grief  graven  deep  in  her  face.  Well, 
women  looked  upon  that  picture  until  they 
grew  tired  of  the  sight  of  it,  and  then  sud- 
denly they  decided  not  to  grow  old;  and  be- 
lieve me  or  not,  it  is  largely  a  question  of 
will." 

"  And  of  clothes,"  murmured  Castilia. 

"  Yes  and  of  clothes,"  Egeria  admitted. 

"  There  never  was  a  woman   of  fascination 

who   did  not  have  an   instinctive  knowledge 

of  the  art  of  dress  or  make  an  especial  study 

[10] 


THE  WOMAN  OF  FIFTY 

of  it.  She  knows  that  much  of  her  attraction 
lies  in  this  outward  expression  of  her  indiv- 
iduality. Now  the  woman  of  fifty  is  long  past 
the  restrictions  of  youth,  and  may  wear  ex- 
actly what  suits  her  best.  She  may  even  adopt 
the  white  muslin,  blue  ribbons  and  rose- 
wreathed  hat  of  the  young  girl  if  she  choose ; 
but — and  now  listen  well  Castilia,  this  dis- 
sertation is  entirely  for  your  ears,  it  is  an 
unlearned  tongue  to  these  masculine  crea- 
tures— but  the  muslin  gown  must  be  elabo- 
rate. Sweet  simplicity  at  fifty  is  absurd.  A 
middle-aged  woman  who  has  lived  in  the  world 
is  a  complex  creature;  therefore,  the  white 
muslin  must  be  lavishly  adorned  with  lace  or 
embroidery,  the  blue  ribbons  be  of  the  exact 
shade  to  suit  the  complexion,  and  the  rose- 
wreathed  hat  should  be  the  dream  of  an  artist, 
vivid  and  French,  with  all  the  distinction  of 
an  indefinable  style. 

"  A  wide  field  of  choice  belongs  to  the  mid- 
dle-aged woman.  She  may  strike  vibrant 
chords  of  strong  color  or  soft,  harmonious 
moonlight  shades.  The  splendor  of  jewels  is 
her  privilege ;  and  she  may  deck  herself  bar- 

[11] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

barically  and  yet  be  within  the  canons  of 
good  taste.  She  may  '  ransack  the  ages  spoil 
the  climes  '  for  effects,  for  whatever  makes 
for  form  or  color ;  but  these,  Castilia,  are  not 
her  gods.  If  she  has  devoted  all  her  powers 
to  the  development  of  physical  perfection  or 
a  mastery  of  the  art  of  dress ;  she  may  be 
a  beautiful  statue  or  an  exquisite  piece  of 
bric-a-brac ;  but  she  is  not  a  woman  who  could 
either  fascinate  or  enchain.  The  woman  who 
is  really  charming  has  given  these  details  due 
attention — taken  them  as  a  matter  of  course, 
as  one  takes  one's  breakfast,  and  has  then 
relegated  them  to  the  background  of  her 
thoughts,  for  the  woman  of  fifty  who  is  beau- 
tiful, lives  in  the  world's  life,  and  ideals,  its 
hopes  and  dreams.  She  stands  for  something 
in  her  particular  environment.  Her  opinions 
are  no  longer  tentative,  or  in  the  formative 
period.  She  has  had  years  wherein  to  observe 
events,  to  study  persons  and  conditions,  and  to 
weigh  and  test  the  value  of  her  beliefs.  She  is 
careful,  however,  not  to  let  them  solidify. 
She  holds  them  flexible,  ready  to  be  extended 
or  contracted ;  but  they  are  definite.  *  They 
[12] 


THE  WOMAN  OF  FIFTY 

say  is  a  phrase  which  has  no  especial  weight 
for  her.  Her  *  I  say  '  is  perfectly  satisfactory 
for  herself,  although  never  imposed  on  others. 

"  And  the  delightful  woman  of  middle  life 
is  very  tolerant,  very  chary  of  passing  judg- 
ment. In  fact,  she  has  a  greater  horror  of 
intolerance  than  the  devil  of  holy  water.  Why 
should  the  rose  cavil  at  the  catnip  ?  The  world 
is  wide,  and  it  would  be  extremely  monotonous 
if  this  earth  were  one  vast  flower  garden.  Nei- 
ther is  Indian  Summer's  lady  sensitive.  That 
is  a  form  of  egotism  which  may  be  excused  at 
sweet  eighteen  but  is  impossible  at  fifty.  She 
has  learned  with  patience  and  humility  life's 
most  difficult  lesson — self-control;  and  she 
seasons  all  the  dishes  at  her  banquet  of  exist- 
ence with  a  sense  of  humor.  Without  it  the 
feast  would  be  as  flat  as  a  vegetarian  dinner. 
Above  all,  she  has  not  been  afraid  to  live." 

"  That  is  such  an  obnoxious  phrase,"  ob- 
jected Castilia.  "  To  say  that  a  man  or  woman 
looks  as  if  he  or  she  had  lived  usually  means 
that  they  are  battered,  dissipated  wrecks." 

"  That's  because  our  imaginations  never 
soar  above  the  material  plane,  and  there  are 
[13] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

so  many  planes,  so  many  new  worlds  to  dis- 
cover." Egeria's  eyes  looked  wistfully  beyond 
the  reds  and  yellows  of  her  garden  to  the  far 
horizon. 

"  *  The  splendid  worlds  that  wait,'  "  quoted 
the  Poet  softly. 

"  But  the  woman,  in  fact  the  human  being 
who  lives  on  all  the  planes  of  consciousness 
is  rare,"  said  the  Judge  thoughtfully. 
"  That  is  why  we  see  so  litfte  variation  in 
type." 

"  What  would  you  say  were  the  predomi- 
nating types  of  women?  "  asked  the  Editor. 

"  Two,"  answered  Egeria  promptly.  "  The 
woman  whose  interests  pertain  exclusively  to 
material  comforts  and  adornments,  and  she 
who  has  thrown  all  the  forces  of  her  nature 
into  intellectual  pursuits  and  who  has  neg- 
lected or  ignored  the  one  splendid,  glorious 
gift  of  God — her  femininity." 

"  There  are  very  few  men  who  live  entirely 
without  feminine  companionship,"  said  the 
Editor,  "  and  those  who  attempt  it  are 
cranks." 

"  Man,"   remarked   the  Judge   judicially, 
[14] 


THE  WOMAN  OF  FIFTY 

"  is  sufficiently  primitive  and  sensible  to 
realize  that  his  intellect  is  stimulated,  enliv- 
ened and  inspired  by  the  society  of  women; 
but  is  it  not  true  that  there  are  thousands  of 
women  who  by  a  one-sided  and  abnormal  de- 
votion to  what  they  are  pleased  to  call  '  cul- 
ture '  or  *  my  work '  deny  themselves  the  rec- 
reations of  social  life  and  consequently  are 
devoid  of  the  ease  and  grace  of  manner  ac- 
quired in  such  an  atmosphere;  and  at  last 
they  find  themselves  in  middle  life  with  an 
encyclopedic  mass  of  information  and  an 
atrophied  heart." 

"  It  all  comes  from  that  horrid  way  of 
seeing  in  every  man  a  possible  lover,"  said 
Castilia,  although  meeting  the  Poet's  ardent 
gaze  she  had  the  grace  to  blush.  "  They  can- 
not meet  men  frankly  and  spontaneously  as 
friends  whose  comradeship  adds  interest  and 
color  to  their  lives ;  but  view  them  as  a  strange 
race,  either  fiends  or  demigods." 

"  But   the   disciplined,  mature  woman   of 
middle  age  has  lived  past   all  that,"  main- 
tained   Egeria    confidently.    "  She    regards 
men  equally  with  women  as  her  friends  and 
[15] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

companions.  But,"  sitting  up  and  clasping 
together  her  long,  slender  hands  covered  with 
quaint,  green  rings,  "  she  has  not  been  afraid 
to  love.  She  has  not  shut  the  vision  and  the 
splendor  out  of  her  life;  and  she  has  given 
her  affection  in  no  half-hearted  way.  Look- 
ing back  she  can  say,  *  I  loved  thee  to  the 
depth  and  breadth  and  height  my  soul  can 
reach.'  If  for  her  love  has  meant  unhappi- 
ness,  then  she  has  suffered ;  and  yet  through 
suffering  has  come  to  realize  that  love  is  a 
paradox.  It  is  all  of  life  and  yet  far  from 
all.  So  with  the  whole  strength  of  her  will  she 
has  thrown  herself  into  wider  issues  than  her 
heart's  boundary  and  learned : 

'For  love  to  clasp  Eternal  Beauty  close. 
For  glory  to  be  lord  of  self;  for  pleasure 
To  live  beyond  the  gods;  for  countless  wealth 
To  lay  up  lasting  treasure.'  " 

"  You  are  carried  away  by  your  theme," 
exclaimed  Castilia.  "  You  would  not  really 
like  to  be  fifty,  Egeria?  " 

"  I  shall  not  repine  when  I  get  there,"  re- 
plied Egeria.  "  Why,  to-day  the  most  in- 
[16] 


THE  WOMAN  OF  FIFTY 

fluential  women  in  social  life  are  women  of 
fifty  and  over.  They  are  not  always  those 
leaders  of  the  great  world  who  are  most  in 
evidence;  but  it  is  their  feats  which  count. 
They  give  the  cachet,  the  final  fillip  to  any 
entertainment." 

"  But  since  you  claim  beauty  for  the 
woman  of  fifty,  what  do  you  think  of  the 
man  who  said  that  no  woman  was  worth  look- 
ing at  after  thirty,  nor  worth  talking  to  be- 
fore? "  asked  the  Judge  teasingly. 

"  He'd  have  no  standing  for  sincerity  now 
in  regard  to  his  first  clause,  although  he  was 
right  in  the  main  in  his  second.  Many  young 
women  desire  to  make  social  history  for 
themselves  by  being  regarded  as  brilliant 
conversationalists ;  but  the  older  and  wiser 
woman  is  able  to  exert  a  far  more  potent  at- 
traction. She  understands  that  the  true  art 
of  conversation  is  the  ability  to  draw  out  the 
best  in  man  or  woman.  The  light  of  her  sym- 
pathy is  so  clear  and  perfect  that  all  the  dull 
facets  of  their  wit  reflect  it.  In  her  presence 
the  diffident  and  reserved  become  confident; 
and  unerringly  she  draws  to  the  surface  the 
[17] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

submerged  tenth  of  their  individuality ;  their 
deepest,  most  sincere  thought.  The  woman  of 
fifty  has  realized  what  is  at  once  the  cruelest 
and  kindest  fact  of  life — the  solitude  of  self 
— and  has  accepted  its  stern  mandates." 

"  Yes,  and  what  are  its  stern  mandates  ?  " 
asked  the  Judge,  as  she  paused  a  moment. 

"  Efface  your  illnesses,  your  tears,  your 
moods  and  your  tempers.  These  would  limit 
your  power.  These  are  the  little  foxes  which 
gnaw  the  branches  of  your  empire.  She  who 
would  thoroughly  poll  her  kingdoms  must 
con  well  that  terrible  noblesse  oblige:  For 
the  world's  sake,  not  mine. 

"  But,"  she  cried  brightening,  "  Take  one 
of  the  professional  women  of  fifty  years  who 
was  here  this  afternoon.  She  does  not  sit 
down  and  rust;  instead  she  looks  well  to  her 
talents  that  they  may  take  on  ever  new  luster. 
She  is  at  the  very  zenith  of  her  powers  and 
stretching  out  eager  hands  to  the  future.  She 
can  bring  to  her  work  a  ripened  knowledge 
of  life,  and  of  the  emotions  and  passions  upon 
the  character,  which  could  only  have  been 
gained  after  years  of  observation  and  close 
[18] 


THE  WOMAN  OF  FIFTY 

study  of  men  and  women.  She  has  had  time 
enough  to  have,  in  a  sense,  mastered  tech- 
nique; to  handle  the  tools  of  her  craft  with 
such  complete  ease,  that  she  is,  in  a  measure, 
unconscious  of  them." 

"  In  a  word,  she  has  found  herself,"  said 
the  Poet. 

"  Yes,  and  if  that  is  true  in  art,  it  is  a 
thousand  times  truer  in  life.  At  fifty  one  has 
had  time  to  smooth  down  all  the  rough  edges, 
to  soften  all  the  glaring  high  lights  and  to 
touch  up  the  low  tones. 

"  What  an  opportunity !  What  a  task  for  a 
woman  of  imagination  to  liberate  or  rather 
evolve  her  potentialities ;  to  transform  the 
ordinary  into  the  ideal !  " 

"  Her  last  achievement,"  said  the  Editor. 

"  No,  the  last  and  crowning  charm  of  the 
woman  of  fifty  is  repose.  She  does  not  fuss  or 
bustle.  She  has  sown  for  many  years  and 
now  it  is  time  for  her  to  begin  to  reap  some 
of  her  harvests,  to  gather  up  her  fruits  and 
tears.  And  she  is  content  because,  as  Mr. 
Howells  expresses  it  in  one  of  his  stories,  she 
has  '  glimpsed  in  certain  luminous  moments, 
[19] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

an  infinite  compassion  encompassing  our 
whole  being  like  a  sea,  where  every  trouble  of 
our  sins  and  sorrows  must  cease  at  last  like  a 
circle  in  the  water.' ' 

"  She  is  too  perfect !  "  said  the  Poet,  throw- 
ing up  his  hands.  "  She  bores  me." 

"  Wait,"  said  Egeria  impressively,  "  and 
let  me  finish.  I  was  about  to  say  that  Indian 
Summer's  lady  shows  her  supreme  cleverness 
in  allowing  a  few  early  faults  to  grow  in 
native,  rank  luxuriance;  unpruned,  unculti- 
vated; remaining  just  plain,  carelessly  grow- 
ing, wild  faults  rooted  where  Nature  sowed 
the  seed." 

"  It  was  Coventry  Patmore,  I  think,"  re- 
marked the  Poet,  "  who  informed  us  that  his 
*  love  was  not  an  angel  in  one  or  two  small 
things.'  " 

"  The  information  is  unnecessary,"  com- 
mented Egeria  dryly,  "  considering  that  he 
was  a  man.  If  she  had  been  an  angel  he  would 
not  have  cared  for  her.  No  man  ever  loved  an 
angel.  They  occasionally  call  us  by  that  high- 
flown  title;  but  it  is  merely  a  term  of  affec- 
tion, a  figure  of,  speech.  On  the  other  hand, 
[20] 


THE  WOMAN  OF  FIFTY 

it  was  the  masculine  angelic  host  who  saw 
the  daughters  of  men  that  they  were  fair." 

"  But  I  don't  agree  with  the  Poet,"  grum- 
bled the  Judge,  "  I  liked  the  portrait  of  the 
woman  of  fifty  with  all  her  disagreeable  traits 
outgrown." 

Castilia  cocked  her  head  on  one  side  and 
gazed  attentively  at  him  as  if  she  were  gain- 
ing some  new  insight  into  his  character. 

"  Oh,  console  yourself,"  Egeria  laughed. 
"  She  would  never  allow  disagreeable  traits 
to  grow  and  flourish.  No  indeed.  She  fully 
realizes  that  few  things  are  forgiven  to  ma- 
turity; but  forgivable,  characteristic  faults 
are  sweet,  little  weeds  enough.  Why  should 
the  virtues  become  arrogant  and  crowd  them 
out?  Really,  it  is  sometimes  better  to  wrest 
from  the  stubborn  soil  the  self-conscious, 
overgrown  flower  of  spiritual  pride  and  give 
the  poor,  snubbed  little  faults  room  to 
breathe. 

"  Look  at  my  garden.  It  would  certainly 
be  admirable  if  it  contained  only  those  flow- 
ers which  no  lady's  garden  should  be  without ; 
but  it  would  never  be  dear  and  lovable  unless 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

I  gave  space  in  it  to  some  of  the  homely,  old- 
fashioned  herbs,  like  sage  and  thyme  and 
sweet  mar  jorum.  So  in  the  garden  of  a 
woman's  soul  there  should  flourish  a  few  herbs 
of  wilfulness,  heedlessness,  extravagance,  im- 
pulse and  some  of  their  kindred  just  to  add 
savor  to  the  monotonous  sweetness  of  the  lily 
and  the  rose. 

"  Her  continued  pleasing  would  prove  in- 
finitely cloying  if  she  did  not  occasionally 
displease.  There  are  few  objects  to  which  a 
man  becomes  so  indifferent  as  the  woman  who 
breaks  her  neck  to  please  him.  The  patient, 
long-suffering  Griselda  received  exactly  what 
she  merited.  Justice  is  a  circle,  and  a  woman 
who  is  unjust  to  herself,  as  the  abnormally 
self-sacrificing  person  is,  cannot  expect  any- 
one else  to  mete  her  justice.  A  door-mat  is  an 
excellent  object  to  wipe  one's  feet  on;  but 
there  is  no  instance  yet  on  record  of  its  hav- 
ing been  inclosed  in  glass  and  treasured  above 
all  other  household  gods,  after  the  custom 
for  preserving  the  rare  and  beautiful  East- 
ern rugs. 

"  But  how  I  run  on !  I've  talked  so  much 
[22] 


THE  WOMAN  OF  FIFTY 

that  my  throat  is  really  quite  parched." 
Egeria  sank  back  again  into  the  depths  of 
her  chair.  "  Yet,  I've  only  succeeded  in  con- 
vincing myself  that  the  most  delightful  age 
for  a  woman  is " 

"  Your  age,"  said  the  Commonplace  man 
carefully  dropping  three  thick  slices  of 
lemon  into  her  second  cup  of  very  hot  tea. 

"  Banal !  "  muttered  the  Poet. 

"Tiresome  platitude!"  jeered  Castilia 
under  her  breath. 

"  One  nice,  banal,  adorable  platitude  is 
worth  a  dozen  clever,  disagreeable  epigrams," 
said  Egeria  sharply  turning  her  shoulder  on 
them. 


[23] 


THE   QUALITY   OF   CHARM 


"O  friend,  my  bosom  said, 

Through  thee  alone  the  sky  is  arched, 
Through  thee  the  rose  is  red, 

All  things  through  thee  take  nobler  form 
And  look  beyond  the  earth, 

The  mill-round  of  our  fate  appears 
A  sun-path  in  thy  worth." 

EMEBSON. 


CHAPTER    TWO 
THE  QUALITY  OF  CHARM 

ASTILIA  had  set  her  heart  on  her 
paternal  friend,  the  Financier,  and 
Egeria  being  friends — appreciating  each 
other,  as  she  called  it;  and  she  had  taken 
the  most  injudicious  way  in  the  world  of 
achieving  this  desired  result. 

In  the  first  place,  she  had  been  rash 
enough  to  disparage  the  Commonplace  Man 
by  insisting  that  he  was  really  commonplace. 

"  Commonplace !  "  admonished  Egeria, 
with  surprised  and  rather  grieved  eyes. 
"  Dear  Castilia,  I  have  permitted  you  that 
jest  because  it  is  so  untrue.  He  is  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  men  I  have  ever  known." 

"  Because  he  agrees  with  everything  you 
say,"  commented  Castilia  beneath  her 
breath.  "  But  the  Financier,  Egeria " 

"  Please  cease  to  hurl  in  my  teeth  that 
elderly  Lochinvar  from  the  West,"  cried  her 
[27] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

friend  petulantly.  "  My  patience  is  worn  to 
a  thin  thread  and  I  know  from  the  way  you 
have  harped  on  him  to  me,  that  you  have 
dinned  my  name  into  his  ears  until  he  is  sick 
of  the  sound  of  it." 

Castilia  flushed  guiltily  and  recalled  with 
qualms  some  recent  and  impatient  words  of 
the  Financier's. 

"  I  have  been  privileged  to  know  some  of 
the  most  charming  women  in  the  world,  my 
child,  and  Madame  Egeria's  well-advertised 
belleship  smacks  too  much  of  the  press  agent 
for  my  old-fashioned  tastes." 

"  Pish  —  tish !  "  had  Castilia  rejoined 
with  bravado,  "  You  wait  until  you  two 
meet.  You  will  be  cakes  and  ale,  coffee  and 
cheese,  walnuts  and  wine." 

And  now  she  smiled  complacently  in  the 
darkness,  as  she  and  Egeria  were  whirled 
through  the  salt  meadows,  mysteriously  pur- 
ple by  night,  in  the  Financier's  motor  car. 
They  were  on  their  way  to  the  Rich  Man's, 
who  was  giving  a  ball  in  his  tent — a  marble 
palace  by  the  sea. 

Egeria's  fair  hair  held  the  ripple  of  the 
[28] 


THE  QUALITY  OF  CHARM 

waves  and  her  sea-green  eyes  the  sparkle  of 
the  sea.  She  and  the  Financier  conversed 
amiably  and  fluently  and  Castilia  rejoiced, 
regarding  this  as  the  triumph  of  affinity 
over  prejudice. 

Three  or  four  hours  later  when  she  saw 
the  two  for  whom  she  so  desired  a  mutual 
friendship,  slip  into  two  recently  vacated 
chairs  in  the  supper  room,  she  felt  an  un- 
justified admiration  for  her  powers  of  fi- 
nesse, and  called  upon  the  Poet,  who  was, 
as  usual,  her  shadow,  for  commendation." 

"  A  moment  ago,"  said  the  Financier,  un- 
folding his  napkin,  "  we  gazed  at  those  who 
slowly  sipped  their  coffee,  and  wished  that 
our  belief  still  held  its  lost  Paradise — Hell 
— that  we  might  mentally  consign  them 
thither.  A  moment  since,  we  were  the  people, 
hungry,  clamorous,  watching  them  '  spill  the 
bread  and  spoil  the  wine.'  In  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye,  our  attitude  changed.  We  now 
look  with  indifference  upon  the  waiting 
mob,  and  advise  them  if  they  have  no  bread, 
to  eat  cake.  What  a  range  of  experience 
it  gives  us!  We  are  one  with  the  labor 
[29] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

leader  elevated  to  the  presidency  of  a  trust. 
We  are  the  men  in  the  saddle — after  us  the 
deluge !  " 

"  We  are  the  conquerors,  at  any  rate," 
observed  Egeria.  "  Ours  is  this  delicate 
pate,  this  soft,  smooth  wine.  Vive  le  Rich 
Man !  May  he  entertain  of tener !  It  is  unsur- 
passed ! " 

"  Save  by  Nature,"  returned  the  Finan- 
cier. "  You  have  failed  to  notice  that  she  too 
entertains  to-night.  What  a  fete!  The  sea 
dashing  the  froth  of  its  night  and  its  might 
against  the  wall;  that  arch  of  honeysuckle, 
sweeter  than  a  bank  of  violets,  and  yonder 
pale  siren,  the  moon !  " 

The  Financier  was  never  afraid  to  be  fer- 
vent and  poetic.  This  was  a  birthright  with 
which  his  native  Southwest  had  dowered 
him.  Europe  and  the  East  had  given  him 
other  things. 

"After  all,"  mused  Egeria,  "the  high 
gods  bestowed  on  Nature  a  woman's  privi- 
lege—  the  last  word.  Art  may  declaim, 
Science  explain,  Religion  dogmatize,  but 
Nature  has  the  last  word." 
[30] 


THE  QUALITY  OF  CHARM 

"  And  the  last  word,  the  one  word,  the 
eternal  word  is  *  beauty,'  "  he  amended. 

Egeria  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  A  mat- 
ter of  surfaces,"  perversely.  "  The  mask 
Nature  wears  to  hide  the  hideous  processes 
of  decay.  As  the  lovely  heroine  of  a  novel 
that  I  have  been  reading  says :  '  the  beauty 
that  rules  the  world  is  lodged  in  the  epi- 
dermis.' ' 

"  A  superficial  and  essentially  feminine 
point  of  view,"  commented  the  Financier. 
"  Beauty  " — with  a  wave  of  the  hand — "  is 
a  matter  of  soul.  The  skin-deep  variety  is 
not  worth  considering." 

"  But  most  women  would  pay  the  price 
of  a  pound  of  radium  for  that  infinitesimal 
depth,"  she  returned  flippantly,  determined 
to  disagree. 

"  Your  sex  is  hardly  a  judge  of  what  con- 
stitutes feminine  beauty."  There  was  con- 
descension in  the  Financier's  tone.  "  Here 
I  can  prove  the  point  for  you.  Grant  me 
your  indulgence  and  I  will  tell  you  a  little 
story."  He  rather  fancied  himself  as  a  ra- 
conteur. 

[31] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

"  There  was  once  a  woman  who  was  re- 
garded by  all  the  men  of  her  acquaintance 
as  ugly,  stupid  and  tiresome,  and  by  all  the 
women  who  knew  her  as  beautiful,  brilliant, 
fascinating  and  altogether  delightful.  Their 
different  points  of  view  led  to  so  much  dis- 
cussion and  bickering  that  they  finally  de- 
cided to  submit  the  matter  to  a  referee,  a 
wise,  old  fellow,  who,  after  a  very  thor- 
ough acquaintance  with  the  world  and  its 
works,  had  elected  to  spend  the  remainder 
of  his  days  in  seclusion. 

"  He  kindly  consented  to  decide  the  mat- 
ter and  consequently  gave  the  lady  in  the 
case  due  study.  Ultimately  he  announced  his 
decision. 

"  '  Both  sides  are  right,'  he  said.  '  She  is 
the  ugliest,  stupidest,  most  aggressive  crea- 
ture on  earth;  but  masculine  indifference 
and  dislike  have  thrown  such  a  halo  about 
her  that  all  women  see  her  as  beautiful  and 
charming.' ' 

During  the  recital  of  this  tale,  a  flush 
had  risen  on  Egeria's  cheek  and  she  tapped 
her  foot  with  growing  impatience  upon  the 
[32] 


THE  QUALITY  OF  CHARM 

floor.  As  he  finished,  she  bowed  her  head  in 
faint  recognition,  and  said  coldly: 

"  Amusing,  no  doubt ;  but  to  me  your 
fable  proves  nothing  but  the  ineffable  con- 
ceit of  man." 

"  Ah,"  cried  the  Financier  sadly,  "  some- 
thing has  gone  wrong  with  you.  Castilia 
assures  me  that  you  are  the  most  amiable 
woman  in  the  world  and  yet  I  cannot  please 
you.  I  agree  with  you  and  you  contradict 
me.  I  try  to  amuse  you  by  inventing  little 
fairy  stories,  and  you  become  angry.  Soon 
I  shall  be  saying :  '  Let  us  go  hence,  my 
songs  she  will  not  hear.'  But  that,"  with 
a  sigh,  "  is  what  one  must  expect  of  you 
charming  women — caprice." 

"  Financier,  you  are  behind  the  times," 
Egeria's  tone  was  still  glacial.  "  The  dom- 
inant note  of  femininism  in  the  twentieth 
century  is  the  passing  of  the  capricious 
woman.  She  is  gradually  being  transformed 
by  the  unalterable  law  of  evolution  into  the 
reasonable  woman." 

"  The  reasonable  woman !  "  The  Finan- 
cier's tone  expressed  horror.  "  Why  the  very 
[33] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

name  reeks  of  the  commonplace!  The  rea- 
sonable woman !  "  slowly.  "  Ah,  I  see  her !  I 
can  visualize  her  perfectly.  She  smells  of 
bread  and  butter  cut  thick.  She  tramps 
heavily  and  breathes  hard,  so  hard  that  her 
gowns  creak.  Her  topics  of  conversation 
are  the  prices  of  staples,  her  children,  her 
servants  and  her  ailments.  And  into  this  type 
must  the  capricious  woman  impelled  by  her 
inconsistent  and  charming  fancies  eventu- 
ally evolve  ?  " 

"  Is  this  really  the  fiat  of  the  hour,  as 
you  claim?  Never.  I  refuse  to  believe  it." 

"  I  admit,"  said  Egeria,  "  that  at  first 
blush  it  does  seem  an  unpractical  proposi- 
tion— unpractical  and  impossible;  for,  ac- 
cording to  our  preconceived  opinions  a 
reasonable  woman  who  would  also  be  a 
charming  one  would  be  as  mythical  as  a 
phoenix." 

"  Indeed  yes."  The  Financier  spoke  em- 
phatically. "  The  transformation  would  be 
as  a  blue  rose,  an  abortive  attempt  to  im- 
prove on  Nature,  abnormal  and  therefore 
repulsive.  Believe  me,  the  idea  of  a  reason- 
[34] 


THE  QUALITY  OF  CHARM 

able  woman  is  a  chimera  sprung  full-fledged 
from  the  brain  of  that  embodied  caprice — 
woman,  and  will  ever  be  rejected  of  men, 
for  man  is  a  creature  of  ideals,  and  his 
mental  picture  galleries  are  hung  with  a 
long  line  of  fair,  capricious  '  daughters  of 
dreams  and  of  stories  that  life  is  not  wearied 
of  yet.5 

"  The  lady  of  his  dreams  may  be  a  cool, 
evasive,  mocking  Undine  with  her  mist- 
woven  gauzes,  her  water  lilies  and  her  tink- 
ling, soulless,  rippling  laughter;  or  a  Car- 
men with  her  scarlet  dash  of  a  mouth  and 
the  scarlet  dash  of  flowers  in  her  blue-black 
hair;  the  inky  fling  of  her  mantilla;  her 
twinkling  fan  and  her  undulations.  Neither 
one  is  a  creature  who  would  make  a  com- 
fortable home  for  him,  or  would  be  an  ad- 
mirable wife  and  mother;  but  believe  me, 
he  will  not  lightly  displace  them  for  a  lady 
whose  sole  claim  to  his  interest  is  her  com- 
monsense." 

"  That  is  because  a  misconception  of  the 
reasonable  woman  exists  in  the  masculine 
mind,"  rejoined  Egeria,  quite  unmoved. 
[35] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

"  This,  Financier,  is  the  whole  core  of  the 
matter — that  you  men  fail  to  comprehend 
that  the  fascinating  woman  is  rarely  in- 
herently unreasonable.  She  is  merely  suffi- 
ciently and  insolently  secure  enough  in  her 
power  of  attraction  to  permit  herself  the 
luxury  of  caprice.  And  you  find  her  enthrall- 
ing, not  because  of  her  whims,  but  in  spite 
of  them.  Ultimately  you  will  learn  your 
painful  lesson — that  the  capricious  woman 
is  a  profound  egotist.  Her  mind  is  eternally 
absorbed  in  watching  the  whirlpool  of  her 
emotions,  and  she  is  singularly  unselfish  in 
sharing  them  with  the  world.  Like  the  cat 
in  the  fairy  story  that  cried,  '  How  bril- 
liant I  am !  See  me  emit  sparks ! '  she  must 
perforce  draw  all  attention  to  herself." 

"  Excellent,  if  one  admits  the  premises," 
applauded  the  Financier.  "  But  I  do  not.  I 
still  maintain  that  woman  is  fundamentally 
and  delightfully  unreasonable." 

"  She  is  not  fundamentally  unreasonable," 

insisted    Egeria.    "  It    is    her    training    and 

education    which    have    made    her    so.    And 

sooner   or   later,   she  must  write   it   on   her 

[36] 


THE  QUALITY  OF  CHARM 

tombstone  and  cut  it  on  her  card,  that,  as 
George  Moore  says,  '  the  world  is  full  of 
beautiful  women  all  waiting  to  be  loved  and 
amused,'  and  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  she 
will  find  herself  neglected  for  the  woman, 
perhaps  neither  young  nor  beautiful,  who 
possesses  a  broad  tolerance  and  an  envelop- 
ing sympathy;  who  can  laugh  consumedly 
at  feeble  jokes  and  listen  with  a  vivid  and 
ever  new  interest  to  many  twice-told  tales. 
No,  the  capricious  woman  is  passing,  un- 
claimed and  unrestrained  by  the  Twentieth 
century.  Her  hour  was  yesterday.  She  flut- 
tered her  butterfly  wings  in  the  sunshine  of 
yesteryear ;  but  the  wheel  of  time  broke  her, 
for  the  age  of  chivalry  is  past  and  the  era 
of  companionship  is  begun.  Man  no  longer 
requires  that  his  love  shall  be  *  like  a  high- 
born maiden  in  a  palace  tower.'  He  desires 
instead,  that  she  share  his  amusements;  be 
genuinely  and  therefore  intelligently  inter- 
ested in  his  occupations ;  and  woman,  com- 
plaisant chameleon  that  she  is,  must  adopt 
with  the  costumes  suitable  for  the  open-air 
life  of  man,  a  new  feminine  code,  and  adjust 
[37] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

her  mentality  and  manners  to  changed  con- 
ditions. 

"  The  creature  of  moods  and  caprices  may 
reign  for  an  hour,  but  her  season  is  brief. 
The  whole  truth  of  the  matter  is  this,  that 
in  spite  of  the  manners  and  customs  of  stage 
heroines  and  '  the  daughters  of  dreams  and 
stories,'  it  takes  a  woman  of  infinite  beauty 
and  charm  to  be  successfully  capricious." 

"  But  really,  you  do  not  possibly  con- 
sider women  judges  of  what  constitutes  fem- 
inine beauty?  "  The  Financier  was  quizzical. 

"The  only  judges.  We  are  not  dazzled, 
not  hypnotized  by  a  mere  matter  of  ex- 
quisite coloring,  the  fugitive  glance  of  too 
expressive  eyes.  We  are  able  to  bring  a  calm, 
unbiased  scrutiny  to  bear  upon  it,  fully  to 
analyze  it.  We  do  not  confuse  beauty  with 
charm." 

"Are  the  two  then  distinct?"  he  pon- 
dered. 

"  Are    they    distinct  ?  "    repeated    Egeria 

scornfully.  "  Are  they  distinct  ?  Some  one — 

a  man  of  course — has  said  that  if  Cleopatra 

had  been  without  a  front  tooth,  the  whole 

[38] 


THE  QUALITY  OF  CHARM 

history  of  the  world  would  have  been 
changed;  and  Heine,  you  remember,  when 
asked  about  Madame  de  Stael,  remarked 
that  had  Helen  looked  so,  Troy  would  never 
have  known  a  siege.  Absurd!  The  sirens  of 
this  world  who  have  swayed  men's  hearts 
and  imaginations  have  never  been  dependent 
on  their  front  teeth  or  their  back  hair.  If 
Cleopatra  had  lost  a  whole  row,  Antony, 
and  every  other  man  who  knew  her,  would 
have  held  that  women  in  the  full  possession 
of  their  molars  were  repulsive.  And  who 
knows !  Madame  de  Stael  might  have  been 
considered  almost  as  lovely  as  Julie  Reca- 
mier  if  she  had  possessed  the  same  admirable 
instinct  for  keeping  her  mouth  shut  and  the 
same  genius  for  adroit  flattery." 

"  Ah !  "  cried  the  Financier  triumphantly, 
"Your  words  justify  me.  Beauty  is  some 
subtle  essence  of  the  soul,  as  I  said." 

A  faint,  malicious  sparkle  brightened 
Egeria's  eyes.  "  Really  now,  would  you  call 
the  sirens  of  this  earth  soulful  creatures? 
They  were  and  are  psychologists,  intuitive 
diviners  of  a  man's  moods,  capable  of  meet- 
[39] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

ing  him  on  every  side  of  his  nature; 
but " 

"  Do  you  mean,"  interrupted  the  Finan- 
cier, his  eyes  reflecting  the  sparkle  in  hers, 
"  that  their  dominion  over  us  is  through  an 
intellectual  comprehension  of  our  moods  ?  " 

"  Good  heavens,  no !  "  exclaimed  Egeria 
in  shocked  tones.  "  Who  said  anything  about 
the  intellectual  faculties  of  woman?  I  hear 
enough  of  them  at  my  club.  What  I  am 
trying  to  get  at  is  that  beauty  without 
charm  has  always  received  a  very  frigid  ap- 
preciation. Men  prate  of  it,  adore  it,  yawn 
and — leave  it.  Of  the  two,  they  infinitely 
prefer  charm  without  beauty.  Now  Finan- 
cier, what  is  it  that  you  really  admire  in 
woman  ?  " 

The  Financier  temporized.  "  I  will  tell 
you  if  you  tell  me  first  what  women  really 
admire  in  men." 

"  Ah ! "  Egeria's  tone  was  complacent. 
"  There  we  have  the  advantage  of  you.  We 
show  twice  the  solid,  substantial  reasons  for 
the  faith  that  is  in  us  that  you  do.  Woman 
admires  in  man,  courage,  strength ;  then 
[40] 


THE  QUALITY  OF  CHARM 

brains,  ability,  distinction.  She  may  loudly 
profess  her  devotion  to  '  the  carpet  knight 
so  trim,'  *  such  a  dear,  thoughtful  fellow,  so 
sweet  and  sympathetic ! '  But  her  secret 
preference  is  profoundly  for  the  one  who  is 
*  in  stern  fight  a  warrior  grim,  in  camp  a 
leader  sage.'  She  has  not  altered  since  the 
Stone  Age,  not  in  the  least  degree.  When 
she  was  dragged  by  the  hair  from  her  ac- 
customed cave  to  make  a  happy  home  in  a 
new  one,  do  you  fancy  that  she  gave  a 
thought  to  the  recent  companion  of  her 
joys  and  sorrows  who  was  lying  some- 
where with  his  head  stove  in?  Not  she,  her 
pity  was  swallowed  up  in  admiration  for  the 
victor,  who,  lightly  ignoring  the  marks  of 
her  nails  and  her  teeth,  haled  her  along  to 
his  den.  It  is  to  the  strong  men  of  this 
earth,  that  the  heart  of  woman  goes  out. 

"  Printed  articles  on  the  home,"  she  went 
on  with  light  derision,  "  are  always  urging 
husbands  to  show  the  same  loving  cour- 
tesies to  their  wives  after  marriage  as  be- 
fore. In  reality,  nothing  would  so  bore  a 
woman.  Man,  as  you  say,  is  an  idealist. 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

Woman  is  intensely  practical.  She  would  in- 
finitely prefer  to  have  him  out  winning  the 
bread  and  butter  and  jam  than  sitting  at 
her  feet,  penning  sonnets  to  her  eyebrows. 

"  You  see,  she  knows  instinctively  that 
*  man's  love  is  of  his  life  a  thing  apart,' 
and  that  if  he  prefers  showing  her  lover- 
like  attentions  to  ranging  *  the  court,  camp, 
church,  the  vessel  and  the  mart,'  she  is  apt 
to  turn  her  gowns  and  trim  her  own  bon- 
nets to  the  end  of  the  chapter.  But  how 
I  chatter ;  and  you  haven't  told  me  yet  what 
it  is  that  men  admire  in  women?  " 

"  Beauty,"  still  insisted  the  Financier 
enthusiastically,  "  goodness,  truth,  con- 
stancy, amiability." 

Egeria  looked  at  him  with  reproach.  "  Do 
you  really  mean  it  ?  " — earnestly. 

"  Of  course  I  do," — surprised  at  her 
tone. 

"  I  dare  say  any  man  to  whom  I  put  the 
question  would  answer  in  the  same  way." 
Her  eyebrows  expressed  resignation.  "  Stay, 
I  will  phrase  it  differently.  Why  do  you 
love  a  particular  woman  ?  " 
[42] 


THE  QUALITY  OF  CHARM 

The  Financier  could  not  resist  the  oppor- 
tunity, "Because  she  is  you!" — gallantly. 

"  Stop  trifling."  Egeria  was  becoming 
petulant  again.  "  This  is  a  serious  matter. 
Now  answer  properly.  Why  do  you  think 
you  love  a  particular  woman?  " 

"  Because,"  emphatically,  "  I  imagine 
her  rightly  or  wrongly  to  be  the  possessor 
of  those  qualities  I  have  enumerated." 

Egeria  sighed.  "  And  you  still  stick  to 
it?" 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  he  responded  with  as- 
surance. 

She  shook  her  head.  "  Nonsense !  Men  are 
less  exacting  than  you  think — and  more. 
They  ask  neither  beauty,  nor  grace,  nor  un- 
selfishness of  woman;  they  demand  but  one 
thing.  You  must  charm  me.  For  me  you 
must  possess  that  indefinable  quality  we  call 
magnetism.  Emerson  puts  it  in  a  nutshell, 
voices  the  essentially  masculine  point  of  view : 

'I  hold  it  of  little  matter 
Whether  your  jewel  be  of  pure  water; 
A  rose  diamond  or  a  white, 
But  whether  it  dazzle  me  with  light.' " 

[43] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

"  But,"  combated  the  Financier,  "  you 
must  admit  that  Solomon  had  ample  oppor- 
tunity to  make  a  study  of  your  sex,  and 
he  reserved  all  his  praise  for  the  good 
woman,  averring  that  her  price  was  far 
above  rubies." 

Egeria's  smile  was  faintly  cynical.  "  That 
was  in  his  capacity  of  philosopher.  As  mere 
man  he  gave  the  rubies  and  an  immortal 
song  to  a  Shulamite  girl  who  looked  at  him 
with  youth  in  her  smile  and  laughter  in  her 
eyes." 

"  A  tribute  to  beauty,"  contested  the  Fi- 
nancier. 

"  Not  at  all.  Because  she  fascinated 
him." 

"  And  the  secret  of  fascination  is 
beauty,"  he  triumphed. 

She  refused  to  admit  it.  "  The  secret  of 
fascination  lies  with  the  woman  who  can 
convince  a  man  that  under  no  circumstance 
could  she  possibly  bore  him." 

The    Financier    was    still    argumentative. 
"  I  continue  to  maintain  that  beauty  is  some 
subtle  essence  of  the  soul." 
[44] 


THE  QUALITY  OF  CHARM 

*  But  the  last  word,  the  one  word,  the 
eternal  word,'  "  quoted  Egeria  rising,  "  is 
that  beauty  is " 

"  What  ?  "   he  questioned  eagerly. 

"  In  the  eye  of  the  beholder." 


[45] 


THE   PRIDE   OF   THE   EYE 


"Lawn  as  white  as  driven  snow; 
Cyprus  black  as  ere  was  crow; 
Gloves  as  sweet  as  damask  roses; 
Masks  for  faces  and  for  noses; 
Bugle  bracelet,  necklace — amber, 
Perfume  for  a  lady's  chamber: 
Golden  quoifs  and  stomachers, 
For  my  lads  to  give  their  dears; 
Pins  and  poking-sticks  of  steel, 
What  maids  lack  from  head  to  heel 
Come  buy  of  me,  come  buy,  come  buy; 
Buy  lads,  or  else  your  lasses  cry; 

Come  buy." 

SHAKESPEARE. 


CHAPTER    THREE 
THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  EYE 

IT  had  been  raining  all  day,  a  steady  down- 
pour, and  the  lawn  and  the  paths  were 
covered  with  fallen  leaves,  discolored  and 
pulpy. 

Egeria  had  had  a  wood  fire  lighted  in  her 
library  and  there  she  sat,  late  in  the  after- 
noon, with  those  of  her  friends  who  had 
braved  the  weather. 

The  conversation  which  had  been  brisk  at 
first  had  gradually  languished  and  the  Com- 
monplace Man  seeing  that  Egeria  looked 
paler  than,  usual  had  asked  if  she  were  quite 
well. 

"  Oh,  quite ! "  she  answered  languidly, 
"  but  I  am  tired." 

"  What  were  you  doing  that  was  exhaust- 
ing? "  asked  the  Commonplace  Man  with  con- 
cern in  his  voice. 

"  Oh,  a  lot  of  things.  Castilia  and  I  spent 
[49] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

yesterday  in  town.  We  shopped  all  morning, 
we  took  luncheon  at  a  restaurant  with  some 
people.  We  saw  a  play  in  the  afternoon.  We 
dined  at  another  restaurant  with  more  peo- 
ple, and  finished  up  the  day  by  going  to  the 
Opera. 

"  It  was  delightful,"  cried  Castilia  hap- 
pily, a  reminiscent  joy  in  her  eyes. 

"  And  ever  since,"  continued  Egeria,  "  I 
have  been  pondering  upon  the  hideous  and 
soul-devastating  luxury  of  the  modern 
woman." 

"  She  tired  herself  out,  poor  dear,"  said 
Castilia  explanatorily.  "  She  only  thinks  she 
didn't  enjoy  herself  because  her  nerves  are 
jangled." 

"And  what  jangled  my  nerves,  pray?" 
asked  Egeria. 

"  Yes,  what  ?  "  asked  the  Commonplace 
Man  sympathetically. 

"  This,"  she  answered.  "  First,  the  depart- 
ment stores.  One  could,  with  a  rather  strenu- 
ous effort  of  will,  picture  a  sort  of  an  ideal- 
ized department  store  which  should  be  a 
delight  and  an  education  to  the  eye.  One 
[50] 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  EYE 

could  fancy  a  vast  emporium  exhibiting  rare 
fabrics,  delicate  gauzes,  glowing  silks,  and 
brocades ;  the  plain  useful  stuffs  forming  a 
pleasing  contrast.  But  what  is  the  reality? 
It  suggests  to  the  mind  a  topsy-turvy  palace 
constructed  by  madmen  for  the  pleasure  of 
madwomen.  It  is  a  temple  of  confusion,  arti- 
cles trivial,  useless,  unnecessary,  and  ugly  ob- 
trude themselves  upon  the  eye  at  every  hand. 
It  seems  to  me  full  of  things  which  no  one 
should  possibly  want." 

"  The  Judge  shook  his  head  dissentingly. 
"  It  fulfils  its  ends,"  he  said.  "  It  supplies  the 
demand.  It  is  exactly  what  women  wish,  or  it 
would  not  exist  and  flourish." 

"  In  the  great  market  places  of  the  world," 
remarked  the  Poet,  "  Paris,  London,  Vienna, 
and  New  York,  there  is  a  continuous  perform- 
ance without  admission  fee,  for  all  who  have 
eyes  to  see."  He  was  writing  a  play  in  blank 
verse,  and  invested  everything  with  drama. 
"  It  rivals  the  combined  theatrical  perform- 
ances of  two  hemispheres,  and  casts  in  the 
shade  a  composite  operatic  production  ex- 
hausting the  entire  resources  of  the  stage.  It 
[51] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

is  a  splendid  drama,  typifying  the  pride  of 
the  eye  and  the  lust  of  the  flesh.  A  great 
spectacular  presentation,  the  luxury  of  the 
modern  woman." 

"  Well,  I  took  my  drama  quietly  at  home," 
said  Egeria,  "  studied  it  yesterday  at  close 
range,  from  the  curb,  as  it  were,  and  now  I 
have  only  a  kaleidoscopic  and  whirling  mem- 
ory of  .sumptuously  appointed  carriages  roll- 
ing up  and  down  the  Avenue;  of  sleek, 
prancing  horses,  of  the  furs  and  feathers  and 
overpowering  perfumes  of  richly  upholstered 
women,  of  bric-a-brac,  rugs,  and  pictures 
behind  the  glitter  of  plate  glass,  of  garish 
theaters,  and  of  gorgeous  and  over  decorated 
hotels." 

"  Nonsense,"  sniffed  Castilia.  "  Egeria  is 
out  of  tune,  and  the  rest  of  you  are  only  too 
glad  to  say  unpleasant  things  about  women. 
The  woman  of  the  Twentieth  century  does  not 
begin  to  approximate  the  luxury  of  the 
woman  of  the  Roman  decadence — whose  re- 
ligion was  the  cult  of  personal  beauty,  deco- 
ration, and  ease.  Wasn't  it  ?  "  appealing  to 
the  Judge. 

[52] 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  EYE 

"  True,"  Egeria's  tone  was  mild.  "  She  is, 
however,  making  an  earnest  effort  in  that 
direction;  and  if  she  succeeded  beautifully 
and  artistically,  she  should  have  my  warm- 
est praise;  but  that  is  just  what  she  does 
not  do. 

"  Follow  this  flamboyant  type  of  woman 
to  the  theater,  to  church,  to  the  hotels,  where 
she  eats  rich  foods  to  a  noisy  musical  accom- 
paniment, to  her  home.  Of  course  there  are 
exceptions  and  exceptions ;  but  in  the  great 
majority  of  cases  her  presence  is  usually  pro- 
claimed by  the  loud  rustle  of  silk,  the  j  ingling 
of  many  chains — why,  she  rattles  with  chains 
like  the  Prisoner  of  Chillon — a  display  of 
jewels  reminiscent  of  a  jeweller's  window  and 
the  most  penetrating  and  powerful  perfumes. 
Ah,"  with  a  gesture  as  if  waving  them  from 
her,  "  what  one  suffers  from  those  stifling 
perfumes !  One  never  seems  to  escape  them." 

Castilia  chuckled,  "  Egeria  sat  beside  a 
woman  at  the  play  whose  gown  had  been 
hung  with  heliotrope  sachets;  she  had  violet 
perfume  on  her  hair ;  carnation-scented  pow- 
der on  her  face;  jasmine  on  her  gloves  and 
[53] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

American  Beauty  on  her  handkerchief.  To 
add  to  the  discordant  symphony  of  fra- 
grances she  wore  a  cluster  of  gardenias." 

"  Everyone  laughed  but  her  father,  the 
Bishop,  who  shook  his  head  and  sighed  in 
sympathy.  "  I  know  those  prevailing  and  per- 
vasive perfumes,"  he  said  sadly.  "  They  waft 
up  to  me  in  church,  and  the  ladies  who  use 
them  do  seem  rather  heavily  gorgeous.  Some- 
times, when  I  ponder  on  the  sight,  I  cannot 
help  but  recall  Julia  Ward  Howe's  words  on 
the  worship  of  wealth.  Do  you  remember 
them?  " 

No  one  did,  and  the  Bishop  repeated  them 
in  his  sonorous,  sermon  voice: 

"  '  It  means  the  bringing  of  all  human  re- 
sources, material  and  intellectual,  to  one  dead 
level  of  brilliant  achievement,  a  second  Field 
of  the  Cloth  of  Gold,  to  show  that  the  bar- 
baric love  of  splendor  still  lives  in  man  with 
the  thirst  for  blood  and  other  quasi-animal 
passions.  It  means  in  the  future  some  such 
sad  downfall  as  Spain  had  when  the  gold 
and  silver  of  America  had  gorged  her  sol- 
diers and  her  nobles.  Something  like  what 
[54] 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  EYE 
France    experienced    after    Louis    XIV    or 
XV.' " 

"  I  think  you  are  all  horrid,"  pouted  Cas- 
tilia.  "  Yes,  even  you,  father,  predicting  your 
sad  downfalls  and  ascribing  them  all  to 
women.  Egeria,  why  don't  you  come  to  the 
rescue?  " 

"  All  you  women  dislike  criticism,"  began 
the  Judge  didactically.  "  And  that  is  because 
you  take  it  in  a  personal  sense;  but  it  is  a 
very  poor  picture  or  statue  which  cannot 
stand  the  white  light  of  the  public  square; 
and  simply  because  woman  is  used  to  a  diet 
of  sugarplums  she  should  have  too  much 
sense  to  scorn  the  healthful  if  bitter  tonic 
of  honest  criticism,  so  much  more  stimulating 
to  her  mental  digestion." 

Castilia  shrugged  her  shoulders  disdain- 
fully, and  then  smiled  cajolingly  at  him. 

"  But  really,"  interposed  Egeria,  "  when 
one  notes,  and  one  can  hardly  fail  to  note, 
all  the  ugly  and  abortive  magnificence  with 
which  some  women  of  wealth  surround  them- 
selves, and  its  cheap  imitation  by  women  of 
small  means,  one  finds  one's  self  impelled  to 
[55] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

ask :  '  Has  woman,  in  the  main,  any  real  ap- 
preciation of  art  or  abstract  beauty  ?  '  Must  it 
not  be  admitted  that  in  spite  of  the  tendency 
toward  an  increasing  and  ever-widening  cul- 
ture, woman,  save  now  and  then,  in  the  case 
of  the  individual,  has  no  true  feeling  for 
the  intrinsically  beautiful.  It  is  splendor  that 
she  demands;  and  the  love  of  splendor  and 
the  love  of  beauty  are  two  very  distinct  quali- 
ties." 

"  Oh,  you  are  splitting  hairs,"  scoffed  Cas- 
tilia. 

The  Poet  gazed  approvingly  at  a  great, 
velvety,  crimson  dahlia  he  had  just  broken 
from  its  stalk  and  placed  in  its  coat,  "  The 
lover  of  beauty  finds  his  joy  in  a  sunset," 
he  announced,  "  in  a  picture,  a  flower,  or  a 
vase,  whose  harmony  of  form  and  color  fills 
him  with  an  exquisite  and  undying  delight. 
The  lover  of  splendor,  on  the  other  hand,  de- 
sires quantity  and  not  quality.  The  flower 
must  be  a  hothouse  blossom  sufficiently  out 
of  season  to  make  it  incredibly  costly,  the 
interest  of  the  picture  lies  in  its  famous  signa- 
ture ;  the  vase  must  be  worth  a  king's  ransom, 
[56] 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  EYE 
and,    as    for    the    sunset  —  why    that    is    a 
mere  reminder  that  it  is  time  to  dress  for 
dinner." 

"  I  wonder  why  woman  seems  to  lack  the 
artistic  impulse  ?  "  asked  Egeria,  her  mind 
still  occupied  with  the  same  question.  "  I  hate 
to  admit  it ;  but  I  must.  When  man  has  crys- 
tallized his  dreams  into  facts  there  has  arisen 
the  frozen  music  of  architecture;  there  have 
been  cathedrals,  palaces,  and  towers,  '  imagi- 
nation's very  self  in  stone ' ;  there  have  been 
wonderful  canvasses,  marvelous  symphonies, 
poems,  statues.  The  triumphant  pa3an  of  man 
has  been: 

'We  are  the  music  makers 
And  we  are  the  dreamers  of  dreams. 
World-losers  and  world-forsakers 
On  whom  the  pale  moon  gleams; 
But  we  are  the  movers  and  shakers 
Of  the  world  forever,  it  seems.' " 

But  woman  has  not  yet  expressed  herself. 
Her  idea  of  Art  is  to  tie  a  bow  on  a  flower- 
pot or  to  put  a  frill  of  lace  about  a  lamp 
shade." 

"  She  has  no  idea  of  Art,"  explained  the 
[57] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

Poet,  "  because  she  is  still  barbaric  in  her 
tastes.  She  shows  that  in  her  love  for  and 
desire  of  furs,  jewels,  feathers,  and  perfumes. 
Her  passion  for  decoration  is  only  another 
proof  of  it.  It  has  not  been  so  many  years 
ago  that  the  kitchen  utensils,  rolling  pins, 
broilers,  potato  mashers,  etc.,  were  rudely 
torn  from  their  shelves  and,  gilded  and  be- 
ribboned,  placed  upon  the  parlor  walls  in 
thousands  of  our  homes." 

"  But  you  are  unfair,"  cried  Castilia, 
throwing  a  flower  at  him,  which  he  caught 
and  held  closely  in  his  hand.  "  Woman  has 
never  had  a  real  opportunity  to  express  her- 
self, as  you  call  it.  Her  enforced  limita- 
tions  " 

Egeria  shook  her  head.  "  I'm  sorry,  Cas- 
tilia, but  it  won't  do.  She  has,  from  the  earli- 
est ages,  had  full  liberty  to  express  herself 
in  clothes.  By  this  time  we  should  have  mas- 
tered the  art  of  dress.  We  should  all  appear 
as  poems  and  symphonies  instead  of  monstros- 
ities. Look  at  that  heiress  of  the  ages,  that 
exotic  flower  of  careful,  hothouse  cultivation 
— the  dame  du  monde.  She  too  expresses  her- 
[58] 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  EYE 
self  in  clothes;  but  nothing  appeals  to  her 
fastidious  and  morbid  fancy  but  the  bizarre 
and  the  enormously  costly.  In  dress  she  aims 
to  achieve  the  novel,  the  startling,  almost  the 
impossible — velvet  embossed  on  lace,  wraps 
of  fur  and  chiffon  —  everything  must  be 
diverted  from  its  original  purpose,  must  be 
fragile,  perishable,  and  ephemeral.  She  trims 
her  cloth  of  gold  with  frieze,  and  adorns  a 
gingham  frock  with  point  d'Alen9on." 

"  If  you  consider  that  women  have  any 
taste  or  artistic  perception,  you  have  only  to 
view  their  houses,"  said  the  Poet  gloomily. 
"  I  admit  that  the  woman  of  wealth  is  usu- 
ally wise  enough  to  turn  hers  over  to  pro- 
fessional decorators.  This  is  a  real  relief, 
for  it  generally  means  that  they  will  be  cor- 
rect and  inoffensive  in  style,  even  if  they  are 
mere  replicas  of  a  few  thousand  others.  They 
serve  as  excellent  examples  of  properly  fur- 
nished interiors ;  but,  of  course,  they  are  en- 
tirely colorless  and  lacking  in  that  expres- 
sion of  individuality  which  alone  gives  soul 
to  a  home.  According  to  the  fashion  of  the 
moment,  the  drawing-room  may  be  old 
[59] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

French,  the  library  stately  Florentine,  the 
dining  room  Flemish,  and  the  rest  of  the 
house  polyglot  and  painful.  If  she  adds 
the  so-called  feminine  touch,  it  is  apt  to  be 
a  little  of  expensive  trifles,  not  differing 
widely  in  artistic  value  from  the  gilded  roll- 
ing pins  and  potato  mashers." 

Castilia's  eyes  flashed  indignation.  "  I 
never  heard  so  much  horrid  cynicism  in  all 
my  life.  I  am  going  home.  I  am  too  disgusted 
to  remain." 

"  Wait,  Castilia,"  said  the  Judge,  who  had 
known  her  from  childhood,  a  flash  of  amuse- 
ment in  his  eyes.  "  We  will  leave  the  decision 
to  you..  You  shall  decide  for  us  this  mooted 
question,  where  a  woman's  real  interest  lies. 
Now  take  the  case  of  the  average  woman — 
you  do  solemnly  swear  to  answer  truthfully, 
remember — the  average  woman,  average  in 
appearance,  average  in  intelligence,  and  the 
possessor  of  limited  means.  Now  let  her  awake 
one  morning  and  find  herself  the  possessor 
of  riches.  What  would  she  do?  What  would 
be  her  first  and  imperative  impulse?  " 

"  Why  to   buy    clothes,   of    course !  "   ex- 
[60] 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  EYE 

claimed  Castilia  naively,  as  if  astonished  at 
his  stupidity. 

"  Certainly,  to  establish  a  wardrobe."  The 
Judge  had  assumed  the  tactful,  deferential 
manner,  the  gentle,  reassuring  voice  he  al- 
ways used  when  assisting  at  the  self -revela- 
tions of  a  witness.  "  And  what  would  she  do 
next?" 

Castilia's  eyes  shone  with  vicarious  rap- 
ture. "  Buy  jewels,"  she  said  unctuously, 
"  Quarts  of  them." 

"  Yes,"  prompted  the  Judge,  his  voice 
more  dulcetly  suave  than  ever,  "  quarts  of 
them.  And  what  next?  " 

"  Oh,  she  would  begin  to  take  an  interest 
in  being  well-groomed  and  perfectly  turned 
out." 

The  Judge  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
wiped  his  eye-glasses  with  a  satisfied  smile, 
but  the  Bishop  sighed  heavily.  "  And  thus 
we  meet  her,"  he  said,  "  well-groomed,  be- 
jeweled,  gorgeously  attired,  painted  and  per- 
fumed, refusing  to  view  life  except  in  its 
scenic  and  spectacular  aspects.  And  observ- 
ing all  this  insolent  and  ostentatious  display 
[61] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

of  wealth,  I  sometimes  wonder  whence  flows 
the  pactolian  stream  to  supply  all  these  femi- 
nine whims  and  caprices." 

"  That's  easy,"  said  the  poet  flippantly. 

"'But  since  our  women  must  walk  gay, 
And  money  buys  the  gear, 
The  sailing  vessels  filch  the  way 
At  hazard  year  by  year.'  " 

"  That  is  the  feminine  creed,  '  women 
must  walk  gay,' ';  remarked  the  Judge. 
"  Just  so  they  get  the  gear,  the  fact  that 
*  the  sailing  vessels  filch  this  way  '  does  not 
interest  them  in  the  least.  The  burden  of  the 
responsibility  rests  on  some  one  else's  shoul- 
ders. They  merely  shrug  theirs  and  adjust 
the  gear." 

"  Oh,  Egeria,  Egeria,  how  can  you  sit 
there  calmly  listening  while  they  so  traduce 
our  sex,"  wailed  Castilia.  "  I've  done  the 
best  or  the  worst  that  I  could ;  but  I'm  only 
a  poor  little  fox  torn  to  pieces  by  a  pack  of 
wolves,  while  you  are  in  full  cry  with  the 
beasts.  I  am  losing  my  faith  in  you.  Re- 
member your  Browning: 
[62] 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  EYE 

'Male  chivalry  has  perished  off  the  earth, 
But  women  are  knight  errants  to  the  last.' 

Are  you  not  going  to  burnish  your  shield  and 
break  just  one  lance  for  the  honor  of  your 
sex?" 

The  call  to  battle  was  ever  an  inspiration 
to  Egeria,  and  now  she  sat  upright,  her  eyes 
sparkling.  "  Indeed  I  am,"  she  cried,  "  and 
I  am  going  to  begin  by  admitting  everything 
they've  said,  and  that  I  have  agreed  with 
them  in  saying.  It  is  all  true,  every  word  of 
it ;  but  is  not  fixed  and  permanent  fact ;  it  is 
only  a  temporary  manifestation  in  evolution. 
In  this  age  not  only  the  thoughts  of  men,  but 
of  women,  are  widening  by  *  the  process  of 
the  suns,'  and  the  time  is  surely  coming  when 
woman  will  no  longer  regard  personal  adorn- 
ment as  her  only  avenue  of  expression.  That 
she  has  done  so,  and  still  does  so  is  due  to 
the  morally  and  mentally  degrading  fact  of 
her  economic  dependence  through  the  long 
ages.  She  has  no  proper  estimation  of  labor ; 
no  real  knowledge  of  what  she  consumes  and 
wastes.  Why  should  it  not  be  so?  Her  whole 
chance  of  establishing  herself  well  and  hon- 
[63] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

orably  in  life,  of  achieving  social  position, 
and  of  securing  a  maintenance  in  her  old  age 
has  rested  on  her  personal  attractions.  Think 
of  it !  Consequently  she  has  only  shown  the 
most  rudimentary  business  sense  when  she  has 
striven  in  every  possible  way  to  enhance  her 
beauty  and  grace.  This  has  resulted  in  an 
enormous  demand  for  every  article  conducive 
to  her  personal  adornment.  She  has  created  a 
great  market  for  the  meretricious  and  the 
trivial,  and  that,  of  course,  has  been  a  de- 
terrent rather  than  a  stimulant  to  the  best 
art,  the  truest  industry. 

"  But  the  conditions  under  which  woman 
lives  are  daily,  hourly  changing,  and  with 
the  conditions,  her  viewpoint,  her  ideals,  her 
entire  outlook  upon  life. 

"  What  if  personal  embellishment  has 
been  the  only  outlet  for  her  mental  energy? 
Her  very  passion  for  luxury  is  a  crude, 
ineffective  reaching  out  toward  art  and 
beauty;  and  now  she  enters  upon  a  new 
era. 

"  Why  woman  is  the  most  interesting  study 
in   the    world  to-day ;   far   more   interesting 
[64] 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  EYE 
than  man.  She  is  a  great  psychological  prob- 
lem. She  is  slowly  awakening  to  a  new  con- 
sciousness, a  new  understanding  of  herself, 
and  she  is  torn  by  contending  emotions,  for 
she  is  urged  onward  by  the  Zeitgeist,  the 
spirit  of  the  times,  to  the  utmost  radicalism 
in  independence,  and  she  is  held  back  by  the 
iron  thought-molds  to  a  rigid  conservatism 
of  action. 

"  Instinctively  she  knows  that  her  hour 
is  at  hand.  She  repudiates  the  horse-leech 
and  refuses  longer  to  remain  his  daughter, 
standing  with  outstretched  hand  and  cry- 
ing :  '  Give,  give.'  Instead,  she  is  learn- 
ing slowly  and  with  difficulty  that  hers  is 
the  divine  right  to  give  freely,  and  that 
there  are  no  prizes  for  which  she  may 
not  compete. 

"  Even  among  rabbit-brained  women  who 
must  '  walk  gay '  and  ask  nothing  of  life 
but  ease  and  amusement,  a  new  ideal  is  grad- 
ually superseding  a  former  one.  They  would 
openly  scoff  at  the  clinging,  fainting,  weep- 
ing heroine  of  the  eighteenth  century,  over 
whose  sentimental  sorrows  their  grandmoth- 
[65] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

ers  shed  many  tears.  Instead,  they  reserve 
their  admiration,  and  incidentally  their  em- 
ulation, for  such  women  as  Whitman  des- 
cribes : 

"  '  They  are  tanned  in  the  face  by  shining  suns  and 

blowing  winds. 
Their  flesh  has  the  old  divine  suppleness  and 

strength. 

They  know  how  to  swim,  row,  ride,  wrestle, 
run,  strike.' 

It  is  quite  true  that  woman  has  contributed 
practically  nothing  to  art,  science,  invention, 
and  discovery.  She  has  not  even  designed 
her  personal  ornaments.  But  what  of  it? 
It  simply  means  that  her  day  is  not  yet.  Oh, 
I  know,  Castilia,  I  see  you  open  your  mouth. 
You  are  going  to  hurl  George  Eliot,  Mary 
Somerville,  Madame  Curie,  Sonya  Kovaleve- 
sky,  and  a  few  more  at  me.  They  prove  little. 
Those  isolated  instances  are  but  a  promise 
that  woman  will  one  day  expand  into  a  mar- 
velous expression." 

"  How?  "  asked  the  Judge  cynically. 

"  She  will  inaugurate  and  enjoy  the  real 
luxury  of  comfort  and  convenience.  She  will 
[66] 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  EYE 

• 

be  clothed  in  beautiful  fabrics  and  sur- 
rounded by  beautiful  objects.  The  garish, 
the  ostentatious,  the  vulgar  will  disappear, 
because  she  will  be  educated  above  them.  Her 
clothes  and  ornaments  shall  become  the  mere 
fitting  and  gratifying  expression  of  her  in- 
dividuality, nothing  more. 

"  As  her  social  consciousness  widens,  she 
will  not  expend  all  her  care  and  affection  upon 
the  narrow  family  circle,  but  spare  some  of 
it  for  her  brothers  and  sisters  all  over  the 
earth.  She  will  learn  that  luxury  and  civiliza- 
tion are  not  synonymous,  and  that  she  is  not 
even  civilized  if  she  is  content  to  remain  the 
possessor  of  hoarded  wealth  as  long  as  there 
is  one  hungry  or  ill-treated  child  in  the  world. 
Her  own  children  will  be  a  thousand  times 
dearer  when  she  realizes  that  all  children  are 
equally  hers." 

"  Hear,  hear ! "  exclaimed  the  Judge. 
"  What  a  burst  of  eloquence ! "  But  the 
Bishop  smiled  upon  her. 

"  Time  to  go  home,"  remarked  the  Poet, 
"  the  sun  is  setting  behind  the  clouds." 

"  Yes,"  said  Egeria,  rising,  "  and  as  Cas- 
[67] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

tilia  and  I  are  women,  and  therefore  devoid 
of  the  artistic  impulse  and  incapable  of  ap- 
preciating a  sunset,  we  will  take  it  as  a  re- 
minder that  it  is  time  to  dress  for  dinner." 


[68] 


THE   FEMININE   TEMPERAMENT 


'For  women  will  fret 
About  everything  infinitesimal  small; 
Like  the  sage  in  our  Plato,  I'm  anxious  to  get 
'  On  the  side ' — on  the  summer  side — '  of  a  wall ' 
Let  the  wind  of  the  world  toss  the  nations  Like 

rooks 

If  only  they'll  leave  me  at  peace  with  my  books." 

ANDREW  LANG. 


CHAPTER    FOUR 
THE  FEMININE  TEMPERAMENT 

EGERIA  was  sitting  on  the  top  of  a 
flight  of  steps  leading  up  to  the  porch 
of  her  old  Colonial  house.  She  leaned  against 
one  of  the  tall  pillars  wreathed  with  purple 
clematis,  and  she  was  intently  reading  an 
open  book  on  her  knee,  when  the  Bishop  came 
slowly  down  the  path  and  stood  before  her. 

"  It  is  delightful  to  talk  to  a  Bishop,"  she 
smiled,  after  she  had  warmly  greeted  him  and 
insisted  upon  his  taking  a  more  comfortable 
seat  than  the  one  she  had  deliberately  chosen. 
"  It  immediately  becomes  a  serious  duty  to 
be  frivolous." 

"And  why,  pray?"  The  Bishop  looked 
slightly  bewildered. 

"  To  afford  you  the  pleasures  of  contrast. 
To  convince  you  from  the  start  that  one 
woman  does  not  seek  priestly  counsel,  nor  in- 
[71] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

tend  to   bore  you  with  the  vagaries  of  her 
soul." 

The  Bishop  smiled  benignly,  deprecating- 
ly,  and  yet  comprehendingly.  He  even  shook 
his  head  in  paternal  and  playful  admonition. 

"  Oh,  I  know  us,"  Egeria  assured  him. 
"  A  woman  if  she  is  young  is  always  either 
occupied  with  her  heart  or  her  soul.  When 
the  one  absorbs  her  the  other  does  not.  When 
she's  in  love,  she  forgets  all  about  her  soul. 
When  she  is  out  of  love  she  turns  to  it  again. 
Then  she  yearns  for  incense,  altar  lights,  and 
a  pale,  young  priest,  who  is  willing  to  devote 
time  and  prayers  to  assuaging  her  spiritual 
doubts.  She  calls  them  spiritual ;  they  are,  of 
course,  purely  emotional.  She  doesn't  care  in 
the  least  to  be  spiritually  directed  by  any 
well-fed,  commonplace  parson,  with  a  fat 
wife  and  a  pack  of  rosy  children.  No,  no,  a 
wistful  young  ascetic,  with  hollows  under  his 
eyes,  wan  and  worn  with  fastings  and  vigils. 
She  is  perfectly  aware  that  he  has  ultimately 
not  the  ghost  of  a  show;  but  she  is  entirely 
willing  that  he  shall  have  a  run  for  his 
money.  In  fact,  she  hopes  that  the  struggle 
[72] 


THE  FEMININE  TEMPERAMENT 
may  be  keen  and  prolonged.  To  play  a  game 
fish  which  is  putting  up  the  fight  of  its  life  is 
infinitely  more  exciting  than  to  languidly  reel 
in  the  line  and  secure  a  victim  which  has  not 
made  the  least  resistance." 

The  Bishop  smiled  tolerantly,  tapping  his 
finger  tips  together.  "  Doubtless  correct, 
doubtless  correct.  Your  astuteness  and  intel- 
lectual acumen  have  always  elicited  my  ad- 
miration." 

A  sparkle  of  annoyance  brightened 
Egeria's  eyes.  "  Checkmate,"  she  murmured, 
with  a  little  bow  of  deference. 

The  Bishop  raised  his  brows  innocently. 

"  Oh,  you  know,"  continued  Egeria  re- 
sentfully, "  that  there  is  one  compliment  a 
woman  never  forgives,  and  that  is  a  tribute 
to  her  intellect  at  the  expense  of  her  power 
of  attraction." 

"  You  deserved  it,"  laughed  the  Bishop. 
"  But,  dear  lady,  have  you  ever  paused  to 
consider  what  a  debt  of  gratitude  the  world 
owes  us  ?  When  I  listen  to  the  outpourings  of 
overcharged  feminine  hearts  and  read  the 
diaries,  confessions,  and  novels  of  innumer- 
[73] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

able  women,  I  am  forced  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  church  thoroughly  understood  one 
of  the  first  needs  of  a  woman's  heart  when  it 
established  the  confessional.  Then  man,  with 
his  restless,  protesting  conscience,  did  his 
best  to  estrange  you  from  that  consolation; 
and  in  consequence,  some  eccentric,  undisci- 
plined creature  now  and  again  voices  to  the 
world  the  disorganized,  hysterical,  feminine 
emotions  which  should  have  been  discreetly 
sobbed  into  the  ecclesiastical  ear,  decently  en- 
tombed in  the  silence  of  the  confessional." 

There  was  a  faint  wrinkle  of  displeasure 
on  Egeria's  brow.  "  Admitted,  admitted  " — 
hastily — "  and  thank  you  kindly,  dear  Bish- 
op, for  your  little  criticism  of  us.  It  makes 
it  quite  possible  for  me  to  discuss  the  clergy 
if  I  wish.  Now,  I  can  ask,  without  being  im- 
pertinent, a  question  which  has  long  puzzled 
me.  Why  is  it  that  you  prelates  and  princes 
of  the  church  are  almost  invariably  tolerant, 
delightfully  broad-minded  and  free  from 
bias,  while  the  rank  and  file  are  frequently  so 
strenuous  and  discomposing?  For  instance, 
last  summer  I  was  thrown,  through  force  of 
[74] 


THE  FEMININE  TEMPERAMENT 
circumstances,  with  a  sallow-faced,  stoop- 
shouldered  preacher  who  always  spoke  of 
himself  as  '  a  minister  of  the  gospel.'  When- 
ever his  dyspepsia  was  especially  severe,  he 
informed  his  parishioners  that  he  had  girded 
on  his  armor  and  was  prepared  to  rebuke 
evil  in  high  places,  and  that  he  would  be  recal- 
citrant to  his  trust  if  he  did  not  continually 
lift  up  his  voice  to  condemn  civic  rottenness 
and  social  degeneracy.  Now,  Bishop,  tell  me, 
please,  what  makes  the  difference  between  his 
type  and  yours?  " 

A  humorous  twinkle  shone  in  the  Bishop's 
eye,  then  he  leaned  forward  and  whispered 
one  word  in  Egeria's  ear :  "  Money." 

She  laughed  and  was  about  to  speak  when 
he  again  leaned  forward  and  peered  curi- 
ously at  the  open  book  in  her  lap.  "  Dear 
lady,"  with  a  smile  of  blended  astonishment 
and  gratification,  "  you  have  been  reading 
the  Bible." 

"  Indeed  I  have,"  laughing  at  his  expres- 
sion, "  I  was  absorbed  in  it  when  you  came. 
When  I  was  a  child,  I  used  to  wonder  how 
my    grandmother    could   sit   and   pore   over 
[75] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

those  pages,  when  Life  beckoned  and  all  out- 
doors wooed.  That  peaceful  figure  sitting  in 
an  easy  chair,  and  bending  over  that  large- 
print  Bible  haunted  my  youth  as  a  terrify- 
ing picture  of  old  age.  But  now,  I  under- 
stand it.  I  find  here,  dear  Bishop,"  tapping 
the  volume,  "  poetry,  drama ;  marvelous 
studies  of  human  nature.  It  portrays  as 
nothing  else,  man's  restless,  passionate  quest 
for  '  that  unknown  which  is  life  to  love,  re- 
ligion, poetry.' ' 

The  Bishop  smiled  benignly.  "  You  re- 
member what  Disraeli  said,  '  It  is  the  little 
nations  which  do  the  greatest  things.  The 
Jordan  and  the  Illysus  have  civilized  the 
world.'  "  He  mused  a  moment,  "  All  the  na- 
tions which  had  arisen  had  put  their  force 
into  achievement,  had  followed  man's  eter- 
nal will-o'-the-wisp,  temporal  power;  but 
Israel  believed,  Israel  followed  the  vision, 
and  bent  her  ear  to  the  voice  of  the  spirit — 
but  " — breaking  off,  "  What  have  you  been 
reading  this  morning  ?  " 

"  Beautiful    stories,"    Egeria's    tone    was 
enthusiastic.  "  Dramas  of  the  soul.  Old,  old 
[76] 


THE  FEMININE  TEMPERAMENT 
tales  that  have  been  made  tiresome  and  banal 
to  us  because  they  have  been  dinned  into  our 
childish  ears  by  stupid  Sunday-school  teach- 
ers. I've  been  reading — now  do  not  laugh  at 
me,  Bishop — I  have  been  reading  that  won- 
derful allegory  of  genius-^the  story  of  the 
little  lad  whom  his  father  loved  more  than 
all  his  other  sons,  and  who  innocently  re- 
lated to  his  envious  brothers  the  prophetic 
dreams  which  visited  his  pillow,  told  them  of 
his  vision  of  future  dominion. 

"  Ingenuous  revelations  of  a  self-sufficing 
spirit !  He  dreamed  as  he  told  them  that  he 
and  they  were  binding  sheaves  together  in 
the  field,  *  and  lo !  my  sheaf  arose  and  also 
stood  upright;  and,  behold,  your  sheaves 
stood  round  about  and  made  obeisance  to  my 
sheaf.' 

"  And  again  you  remember,  Bishop,  the 
inherent  consciousness  of  his  powers  took 
another  form :  '  Behold  I  have  dreamed  a 
dream  more;  and  behold,  the  sun,  and  the 
moon,  and  the  eleven  stars  made  obeisance 
to  me.'  But  then,  the  ten  brothers,  his  world, 
like  the  world  before  them  and  the  endless 
[77] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

generations  to  follow,  scoffed  at  his  beliefs 
and  hated  him  for  his  words. 

"  And  they  went  to  feed  their  flocks  wher- 
ever they  might  find  a  favorable  pasturage, 
and  Joseph  was  sent  after  them —  Can't  you 
see  him  toiling  up  that  hill,  can't  you  see 
that  faint,  almost  hueless  expanse  of  Syrian 
landscape,  long  reaches  of  palest  blue,  and 
gray,  and  yellow;  and  the  boy  in  his  little 
coat  of  many  colors,  seeking  his  brothers, 
glad  and  ready  to  give  them  his  thoughts 
and  his  dreams? 

"  And  they,  seeing  him,  drew  together  and 
mocked  and  plotted  as  their  prototypes  have 
mocked  and  plotted  from  the  beginning  of 
the  world. 

"  *  Behold,  the  dreamer  cometh.  Come 
now  and  we  shall  slay  him  and  we  shall  see 
what  will  become  of  his  dreams,'  *' — running 
her  fingers  under  the  text,  "  That  old,  old 
cry  of  the  ineradicable  and  futile  belief  that 
by  slaying  the  thinker  you  slay  the  thought. 

"  Then  they  sold  him  into  captivity  and 
supposed  in  their  short-sighted  ten  minds 
they  were  forever  rid  of  him;  but  destiny 
F78] 


THE  FEMININE  TEMPERAMENT 
was    with    the    dreamer,    then    as    always," 
there  was  a  note  of  exultation  in  Egeria's 
voico,    "  destiny   which   has    forever   decreed 
and  insured  the  immortality  of  dreams." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  nodded  the  Bishop,  "  Joseph 
sold  into  captivity  became  a  Prince  of  the 
house  of  Pharaoh  and  rode  in  the  king's 
second  chariot." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  supplemented  Egeria,  "  his 
Egypt  of  captivity  he  made  captive  to  his 
intellect.  The  stars  and  the  sheaves  made 
obeisance  to  him.  He  stands  as  the  eternal 
refutation  of  the  doubts  of  the  idealist, 

'If  the  dream  must  die  when  the  dreamer  perish 
If  it  be  idle  to  dream  at  all.' 

"  And  then,  Bishop,"  went  on  Egeria, 
without  pause,  her  enthusiasm  unabated,  "  I 
have  been  reading  about  Elisha — that  stern, 
indomitable,  old  prophet  who  could  answer 
haughtily  to  kings :  '  What  have  I  to  do  with 
thee?'" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  again  murmured  the  Bishop. 
"  A  great  character.  Preeminently,  one  of 
those  souls  to  whom,  as  Balzac  says,  the  uni- 
[70] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

verse  belongs.  What  have  you  been  reading 
about  him?  " 

"  Oh,  I  like  best  of  all  the  story  of  the 
time  when  the  King  of  Syria  sent  out  his 
legions  to  the  hill  of  Dothan  to  take  this 
one  feeble  old  man  and  his  single  attendant. 
And  the  servant  hearing  the  thunder  of 
their  oncoming,  and  seeing  the  hopelessness 
of  the  odds,  crouched  trembling  beside  the 
old  prophet. 

"  *  Alas,  my  master ! '  came  his  cry  of  ter- 
ror, *  how  shall  we  do  ?  * 

"  And  Elisha  lifted  up  his  brooding  gaze : 
*  Lord,  I  pray  Thee  open  his  eyes.' 

"  And  as  the  Poets  occasionally  open  our 
dull  eyes  that  see  only  the  difficulties,  the 
obstacles,  the  sordid  commonplaces  of  ex- 
istence, so  the  young  man  saw  for  once  what 
Elisha  saw  always — the  splendor  of  the 
vision,  the  encompassing  hosts  of  heaven 
drawn  up  to  protect  them,  in  chariots  of 
flame,  with  horses  of  fire.  But — "  Egeria 
paused  shame-facedly  and  actually  blushed. 
"  The  idea  of  me  sitting  here  telling  you 
Bible  stories ;  carefully  carrying  my  little 
[80] 


THE  FEMININE  TEMPERAMENT 
scuttle  of  coals  to  Newcastle.  You  observe, 
I  trust,  that  I  have  the  grace  to  blush." 

"  But  I  assure  you,  if  you  will  believe 
me,  that  I  enjoyed  it,"  affirmed  the  Bishop, 
"  I  always  like  you  best  when  you  are  car- 
ried away  by  your  enthusiasms." 

"  Thank  you ;  but  I  still  feel  guilty.  What 
were  we  talking  about  before  I  began  to 
instruct  you  in  Biblical  lore?  Oh!  I  remem- 
ber, the  feminine  temperament.  Now  really, 
Bishop,  quite  under  the  rose,  do  you  not 
become  frightfully  bored  sometimes  by  its 
various  manifestations  ?  " 

"  It  may  be  a  trifle  self-conscious,  a  little 
inclined  to  regard  itself  pathologically," 
admitted  the  Bishop  with  caution. 

"  It  is  frequently  yellow,"  said  Egeria, 
decisively.  "  Why  don't  you  novelists  and 
clergymen  occasionally  tell  us  the  truth?  " 

"  We  must  fill  our  churches  and  sell  our 
books,  I  suppose,"  returned  the  Bishop,  half 
whimsically,  half  regretfully.  "  What  would 
you  say,  Lady  Egeria,  if  we  put  you  in 
orders,  and  disregarding  St.  Paul's  advice, 
let  you  occupy  the  pulpit?  Would  you 
[81] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

thunder   denunciations   at   poor,   defenceless 
women  ?  " 

"  I'd  have  a  fine  time,"  cried  Egeria,  her 
eyes  alight.  "  I  would  do  what  you  ser- 
monizers  and  novel  writers  haven't  the  cour- 
age to  do — just  tell  them  the  truth  about 
themselves.  Chide  them  for  their  frivolities 
and  extravagances  and  vanities?  Not  I. 
They  don't  care  a  straw  for  that.  No,  no, 
I  should  have  a  new  evangel  and  a  new  text. 
It  should  be :  '  Play  the  game  gamely  and 
don't  whine  if  you  lose.'  Now,  Bishop,  con- 
fess that  you  never  meet  a  strange  woman 
that  you  do  not  observe  a  speculative  gleam 
in  her  eye  which  long  experience  has  taught 
you  to  interpret  as :  '  How  soon  can  I  tell 
him  my  troubles  ?  ' 

"  Poor  ladies !  You  have  so  many,"  sighed 
the  Bishop  sympathetically. 

"  Of  course  we  have,  we  multiply  them  by 
three.  Sedulously  to  observe  all  tragic  and 
harrowing  anniversaries  is  a  part  of  our 
religion.  '  It  is  just  five  years  ago  to-day 
since  Edwin  left  me  for  another,'  she  says, 
mournfully,  and  then,  shrouding  herself  in 
[82] 


THE  FEMININE  TEMPERAMENT 
gloom,  lives  over  each  poignant,  past  mo- 
ment. If  anyone  asks  the  cause  of  her  de- 
jected demeanor,  she  murmurs  in  a  sad, 
sweet  voice :  *  It  is  an  anniversary.  Would 
you  like  to  hear  of  my  grief?  ' 

"But  what  does  a  man  do?  He  says: 
'  Jove !  It's  just  a  year  to-morrow  since 
Jemima  was  run  down  by  a  motor  car.  I 
must  keep  myself  well  amused  or  it  may  be 
a  depressing  occasion.' 

"  Seriously,  Bishop,  if  I  were  you,  I'd  have 
a  phonograph  in  my  study,  and  the  moment 
a  woman  set  foot  within  the  door  it  should 
begin  that  good  old  hymn :  '  Go  bury  thy 
sorrow,  the  world  hath  its  share.' ' 

"  But  what  can  the  poor  things  do," 
asked  the  Bishop,  "  if  they  may  not  turn  to 
their  clergyman  for  consolation  and  com- 
fort?" 

"  Twang  on  Emerson's  iron  string : 
'  Trust  thyself.'  Why  always  twine  about 
a  pole,  like  a  limp  pea  vine,  and  flop  on  the 
ground  the  minute  the  upholding  stick  is 
withdrawn?  Imagine  the  emotions  of  the 
pole,  if  it  were  sentient !  At  first  it  would 
[83] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

say :  '  Delicate,  dainty  pea  vine  lean  on  me, 
the  clasp  of  your  myriad  tendrils  fills  me 
with  rapture.  How  sweet  is  your  adorable 
dependence ! '  But  in  time :  '  Oh,  stifling, 
smothering  pea  vine,  I  am  suffocated  by  your 
deadening  passivity.  Would  I  could  tear 
myself  free  from  your  throbbing  tendrils.' ' 

"  You  evidently  believe  in  the  dead  bury- 
ing their  dead,"  said  the  Bishop  medita- 
tively. 

"  No  sounder  philosophy  was  ever  en- 
joined on  a  living  world.  Let  the  dead — dead 
pasts,  dead  lives,  dead  loves,  dead  memories 
— bury  their  dead.  Ah,  Bishop,  the  great 
art  of  life  is  the  art  of  forgetting." 

"  You,  Madame  Egeria,  are  inclined  to 
philosophize." 

"  Sir,  do  not  remind  me  of  it !  When  we 
offer  sacrifices  at  the  altar  of  laughter,  you 
may  look  for  gray  hairs  and  crows'  feet. 
Tears  and  passion  belong  to  youth:  that 
season  of  fleeting  and  exquisite  joys,  of 
tragic  and  fugitive  griefs,  of  tempestuous 
and  restless  longings.  Youth,  with  the  pas- 
sionate voice  of  Maurice  de  Guerin,  cries 
[84] 


THE  FEMININE  TEMPERAMENT 
eternally :  '  The  road  of  the  wayfarer  is  a 
joyous    one.    Ah,   who    shall   set   me    adrift 
upon  the  waters  of  the  Nile  ?  '  " 

"  And  in  maturity  we  learn  to  fold  our 
hands  and  stop  our  ears  and  take  refuge 
in  the  commonplace."  The  Bishop's  tone 
was  tinged  with  bitterness. 

"  Ah,  no,  no ! "  Egeria  was  vehement. 
"  We  learn  that  the  Nile,  with  its  dream- 
haunted  shores,  flows  by  our  door;  that 
wherever  a  patch  of  sunlight  falls  is  beauty, 
wherever  a  morning-glory  blows  is  art." 

The  Bishop  fell  in  with  her  mood.  "  That 
is  it.  Maturity  is  nothing  if  it  is  not  ex- 
pansion. 

"'Tis  life  of  which  our  nerves  are  scant. 
'Tis  life,  not  death  for  which  we  pant, 
More  life  and  fuller  life." 

He  loved  to  quote. 

"  Yes,"   exclaimed   Egeria,   "  *  more   life, 
fuller  life,'  more  work,  more  play,  more  ex- 
perience, more  of  the  dreams  that  scale  the 
stars,  more  of  the  splendid,  inexorable  life 
of  earth.  But  "  —looking  at  him  doubtfully 
— "  we   are    getting   horribly    didactic    and 
[85] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

prosy,  and  we  are  a  thousand  miles  away 
from  the  feminine  temperament." 

"  Is  there  anything  left  of  it  ?  "  inquired 
the  Bishop  mildly. 

Egeria  ignored  him.  "  You  have  only  ex- 
pressed yourself  guardedly,  while  I  have 
talked  and  talked,"  she  complained. 

"I  shall  be  equally  fluent."  The  twinkle 
shone  again  in  his  eye.  "  But  my  opinion  is 
given  in  confidence.  I  throw  myself  on  your 
discretion." 

"  Assuredly,"  murmured  Egeria. 

"  Very  well,  then," — lowering  his  voice — 
"  I  am  like  the  old  Englishman  who  said :  *  I 
have  always  found  a  most  horrid,  romantic 
perverseness  in  your  sex.  To  do  and  to  love 
what  you  should  not  is  meat,  drink  and  ves- 
ture to  you  all.'  And  I  also  know  that — 

"Every  day  her  dainty  hands  make  life's  soiled 

temple  clean, 
And  there's  a  wake  of  glory  where  her  spirit  pure 

hath  been. 
At  midnight  through   the  shadow-land  her  living 

face  doth  gleam, 
The  dying  kiss  her  shadow,  and  the  dead  smile  in 

their  dream." 

[86] 


THE   DAUGHTERS   OF   MISFORTUNE 


"  Let  the  great  winds  their  worst  and  wildest  blow, 
Or  the  gold  weather  round  us  mellow  slow  ; 
We  have  fulfilled  ourselves  and  we  can  dare, 
And  we  can  conquer." 

HENLEY. 


CHAPTER    FIVE 

THE  DAUGHTERS  OF  MISFORTUNE 

THE  Commonplace  Man  and  Egeria 
had  started  out  early  in  the  after- 
noon on  a  nutting  expedition.  His  part  had 
been  to  climb  the  trees  and  shake  the 
branches  while  Egeria  stood  beneath  and, 
with  her  hands  encased  in  stout  leather 
gloves,  broke  the  dull,  prickly  burrs  and 
gathered  the  gleaming,  satiny,  brown  chest- 
nuts. After  an  hour's  diligent  toil  she  had 
professed  herself  content  with  the  results 
of  this  labor.  So  the  Commonplace  Man  de- 
scended from  the  tree  and,  seating  himself 
with  considerable  satisfaction  on  the  great, 
fallen  log  beside  her,  began  searching  in  his 
pocket  for  matches,  preparatory  to  light- 
ing a  cigarette. 

"  How  surprised  and  envious  the  rest  will 
be  when  they  all  come  straggling  in  for  tea 
[89] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

and  we  show  them  the  fruits  of  our  toil ! " 
Egeria  gazed  complacently  at  the  large  bas- 
ket at  their  feet,  filled  to  the  brim  with  nuts 
while  the  ground  about  them  was  strewn 
with  leaves  and  burrs. 

The  Commonplace  Man  nodded  without 
speaking  and  struck  another  match;  and 
she  leaned  back  comfortably  against  a  con- 
venient tree,  sure  that  he  wouldn't  interrupt 
her  reverie.  That  was,  she  paused  to  con- 
sider, the  crowning  virtue  of  the  Common- 
place Man.  He  never  showed  that  perverse 
inclination  to  chatter,  which  most  people 
displayed  when  she  wished  to  be  quiet. 

It  was  one  of  those  soft,  windless  days 
in  late  October,  when  the  earth  seems  lapped 
in  a  golden  peace.  The  hills  floated  in  pur- 
ple hazes ;  the  wide  meadows  of  seeded 
grasses  and  dry,  feathery  weeds  stretched 
far  away  and  finally  broke  against  a  line  of 
trees  which  glowed  through  every  shade  of 
brown  and  russet  and  crimson  and  flame, 
emphasized  and  defined  by  the  permanent, 
austere,  intense  green  of  the  occasional 
pines.  Through  it  all  flowed  a  lazy  blue 
[90] 


THE  DAUGHTERS  OF  MISFORTUNE 
river,  rippling  a  faint  accompaniment  to 
some  secret,  harmonious  dream,  and  nar- 
rowing until  it  lost  itself  in  the  opalescent 
mists  of  the  pearl  and  violet  distance.  At 
hand,  where  detail  was  clear,  flutters  of  scar- 
let vine  swayed  from  an  old  gray  fence  with 
its  arabesques  of  green  and  orange  lichens ; 
a  squirrel  would  now  and  again  whisk  tim- 
orously out  from  behind  a  stone,  advance 
on  Egeria's  store  of  nuts,  peer  suspiciously 
at  her  for  a  moment  with  his  beady,  black 
eyes  and  scamper  off,  only  to  return  after 
an  argument  with  himself  and  draw  a  few 
paces  nearer ;  a  fluff  of  milkweed  seeds  burst 
from  their  rough  pods  and  floated  against 
her  cheek  and  she  laughed  aloud  with  joy 
at  the  splendor  of  this  day  and  dust,  and 
then  sharply  sighed  with  the  heart-break- 
ing evanescence  of  its  glory. 

But  presently  her  golden  moments  were 
interrupted  by  the  chug-chug  of  a  motor 
car  and  it  swung  into  sight,  to  come  to  an 
abrupt  stop  in  the  roadway  opposite  the 
nutting  expedition.  Then,  after  a  variety 
of  surprised  exclamations,  Castilia,  dark, 
[91] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

glowing,  radiant  as  the  Autumn,  through 
her  enfolding  veils,  sprang  out,  followed 
by  the  Bishop,  the  Financier,  the  Judge 
and  the  Poet.  Blind  to  the  beauty  of  the 
scene  but  spurred  on  by  the  harvest  Egeria 
and  the  Commonplace  Man  had  garnered, 
they  all  fell  to  nutting,  and  so  vigorously 
did  they  pursue  their  labors  that  soon  every 
adjacent  tree  was  stripped. 

"  Rest  a  bit,"  counseled  Egeria,  "  I  must 
go  home  soon.  I  have  a  guest  who  arrived 
rather  unexpectedly  this  morning." 

"  Who  is  she  ? "  asked  Castilia  inter- 
estedly and  rather  apprehensively.  "  Any- 
one I  know  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Egeria,  "  you  have  never 
met  her." 

It  was  sometimes  the  aggrieved  com- 
plaint of  Egeria's  more  intimate  friends 
that  she  knew  too  many  people.  Truly,  no 
one  could  call  her  exclusive,  her  friends  were 
of  every  social  grade  and  condition.  "  Limit 
myself  to  one  small  circle !  "  she  would  ex- 
claim, "  Never.  If  there  is  one  word  of 
which  I  have  a  horror  it  is  '  exclusive.'  It 
[92] 


THE  DAUGHTERS  OF  MISFORTUNE 
means   the  exclusion   of  interests.   I  prefer 
to  be  inclusive." 

"  No,  it  is  no  one  you  know,"  she  con- 
tinued after  a  moment's  silence,  her  chin  on 
her  hand,  gazing  somberly  before  her.  "  It 
is  a  homeless  woman,  of  middle  life,  with- 
out an  adequate  income  or  occupation." 

"  Who  is  she  ?  "  asked  Castilia  curiously. 

"  An  old  school  friend.  A  woman  who  be- 
gan life  with  everything  and  has  been  be- 
reft of  all." 

"  But  why  is  she  homeless  ?  "  probed  Cas- 
tilia. 

"  Not  from  choice,  I  assure  you,"  dryly. 
"  Every  woman,  my  dear  Castilia,  no  matter 
how  great  a  gypsy  in  disposition,  desires 
some  haven  to  which  she  can  ultimately  re- 
tire when  she  wearies  of  the  open  road. 
Even  if  she  has  a  veritable  mania  for  travel, 
she  wishes  some  spot  which  she  can  call  a 
home  if  only  as  a  matter  of  convenience. 
But  it  is  what  Ada  is  and  what  she  lacks 
which  makes  her  case  so  tragic." 

"  What  is  she  and  what  does  she  lack?  " 
asked  the  Judge  in  his  usual  blunt  fashion. 
[93] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

"  She  is  about  forty,  charming  in  appear- 
ance and  manner.  To  these  gifts  she  adds 
experience  and  knowledge  of  the  world  and 
of  men  and  women.  Emotionally  and  intel- 
lectually she  is  mature.  She  has  been  a  pu- 
pil in  the  school  of  life  long  enough  to 
have  learned  many  of  its  lessons,  to  have 
felt  the  ripening  frost-touch  of  discipline 
and  to  have  gained  some  insight  into 
the  most  difficult  of  arts — the  art  of  liv- 
ing." 

"  Homeless  and  forty !  "  murmured  the 
Bishop  sympathetically,  "  the  very  phrase 
is  a  symbol  of  desolation.  How  is  she  living, 
Egeria?  " 

"  Oh,  she  has  a  tiny  and  quite  inadequate 
income.  She  lives  in  a  hall  bedroom  in  a 
boarding  house  and  visits  continually  among 
wealthy  relatives,  who  do  not  begin  to  be- 
stow upon  her  the  consideration  they  show 
their  maids ;  for  maids,  as  we  all  know,  are 
apt  to  exhibit  a  haughty  independence  and 
a  tendency  to  throw  up  the  situation  when- 
ever the  mistress's  manner  becomes  unpleas- 
antly overbearing.  But  that  daughter  of 
[94] 


THE  DAUGHTERS  OF  MISFORTUNE 
misfortune — the  poor  relation  or  dependent 
friend — has  got  to  subdue  her  pride  and 
take  the  whirlwind  if  she  would  glean  her 
scanty  harvests.  Oh,  I  would  not  speak  of 
Ada's  position ;  but  I  need  your  advice,  and 
perhaps,  your  interest  in  the  matter." 

"  What  does  a  woman  do  under  such  cir- 
cumstances? "  asked  the  Poet.  "  I  know  what 
a  man  does.  He  retires  to  a  den,  gives  up 
all  the  vanities  of  life,  and  studies  the  situ- 
ation. He  brings  his  entire  faculties  to  bear 
upon  the  best  method  of  retrieving  his 
shattered  fortunes." 

Egeria  smiled.  "  A  woman  adopts  a  to- 
tally different  course,  she  acts  as  if  winged 
wealth  were  still  hers.  She  makes  of  poverty 
a  graceful  masquerade.  Carriages  being  no 
longer  within  her  beck,  she  walks,  asserting 
that  she  feels  tremendously  better  for  the 
exercise  ordered  by  her  physician.  Purple 
and  fine  linen  she  professes  to  regard  as  a 
superfluous  ostentation  of  the  vulgar.  Once, 
she,  too,  felt  an  interest;  but  no  more. 
There  are  too  many  other  things  of  vaster 
import." 

[95] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

"  I  have  seen  women,"  said  the  Judge, 
"  who  have  brought  to  bear  upon  the  sup- 
port of  a  fictitious  position,  such  tact,  diplo- 
macy and  reckless  audacity  that  I  have 
pondered  deeply  upon  misdirected  powers." 
Then,  seeing  that  Castilia  shivered,  "  Cas- 
tilia,"  peremptorily,  "  don't  sit  with  your 
feet  upon  the  damp  ground.  Here,  put  this 
rug  under  them." 

The  Poet  threw  him  a  baleful  glance. 

"  I  was  not  shivering  because  I  was  cold," 
said  Castilia,  "  I  was  shivering  at  the  posi- 
tion of  Egeria's  friend,  the  awfulness  of 
adjusting  one's  self  to  changed  condi- 
tions." 

"  Yes,  fancy  yourself  in  her  place,  Cas- 
tilia," said  Egeria.  "  Think  of  the  thousands 
of  women  like  her!  She  believed  that  her 
bark  was  moored  for  life  in  some  snug  har- 
bor, and  began  to  pull  down  sail,  when  quite 
suddenly  upon  her,  just  or  unjust,  capable 
or  incapable,  deserving  or  undeserving,  the 
rains  descended  and  the  floods  came,  and  she 
awakens  from  peaceful  slumber  to  find  her- 
self adrift  on  a  wide  and  pitiless  sea,  con- 
[96] 


THE  DAUGHTERS  OF  MISFORTUNE 
fronted    for    the    first    time    by    the    grim, 
elemental    facts    of    life,    the    necessity    of 
securing  food,  shelter  and  clothing. 

"  The  unsolvable  problems  stare  her  in  the 
face,  demanding  a  solution;  but  how?  The 
shipwrecked  know  nothing  of  seamanship 
or  navigation,  and  yet,  shining,  far  away, 
is  land — land  which  must  in  some  way  be 
reached.  Is  it  strange  that  a  trembling  ter- 
ror overcomes  her  and  that  she  sinks  to  the 
bottom  of  her  frail  craft,  crying,  like  the 
monk  of  old :  '  Oh  Lord,  my  boat  is  so  little 
and  Thy  sea  is  so  great ! ' 

"  But  what  becomes  of  her,  this  woman 
with  the  tiny,  inadequate  income  and  the 
hall  bedroom?  "  asked  the  Judge. 

Egeria  threw  out  her  hands  with  a  ges- 
ture of  despair. 

"What!"  she  cried.  "Why  ultimately, 
as  her  horizons  narrow,  all  the  affections  of 
her  nature  center  on  a  parrot  or  a  plant. 
Beyond  altering  her  garments  to  suit  the 
prevailing  mode,  and  making  an  unflagging 
effort  to  present  the  best  possible  appear- 
ance on  the  scantiest  possible  outlay,  her 
[97] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

intelligence  and  her  natural  ingenuity  are 
devoted  to  securing  an  invitation  now  and 
again  to  dinner  or  to  an  afternoon  tea." 

"  How  does  she  bear  it  ?  "  wailed  Castilia. 
"  Egeria,  why  do  you  use  your  vivid  imag- 
ination to  draw  such  ghastly  pictures  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Castilia,  we  can  bear  anything 
if  we  have  to,"  Egeria  remarked.  "  But 
sometimes  the  starving  human  nature  with- 
in her  rises  in  revolt  and  demands  a  reckon- 
ing. Then  she  is  told  by  consoling  friends 
or  finds  the  sentiment  in  one  of  the  little 
white-and-gold  books  on  her  table  that  mis- 
fortune patiently  endured  is  ennobling,  and 
that  every  difficult  experience  is  rendered 
glorious  by  the  fortitude  with  which  it  is 
borne.  Ada  began  to  voice  some  of  those 
platitudes  to  me  to-day  and  I  am  afraid  I 
hurt  her  by  my  obvious  impatience. 

" '  True,  very  true,'  I  interrupted  her, 
*  but  why  bear  all  these  difficult  experiences 
and  misfortunes?  Why  endure  so  much  for 
the  little,  little  sake  of  appearances?  Why 
not  exchange  the  patience  and  the  forti- 
tude for  the  zest  of  battle?  Why  not 
[98] 


THE  DAUGHTERS  OF  MISFORTUNE 

throw  aside  the  weights  and  the  clogs  and 
stand  free,  ready  to  run  the  race  before 
you? '  " 

"  Did  you  really  attempt  to  console  her 
with  the  cold  comfort  of  those  cheering  re- 
marks?" asked  the  Judge  cynically. 

"  I  did,"  replied  Egeria  coolly,  "  but  we 
also  went  over  the  ground  and  tried  to  find 
a  remedy,  you  know.  But  our  whole  con- 
versation served  to  turn  my  thoughts  in  this 
direction:  how  difficult  it  is  for  women  to 
adapt  themselves  to  new  and  changing  con- 
ditions." 

"  In  other  words,  they  lack  initiative," 
affirmed  the  Judge. 

"  Not  at  all,"  Egeria  argued.  "  It  is  sim- 
ply that  their  whole  training,  environment 
and  tradition  are  against  it.  To  them  the 
unknown  is  fraught  with  vast  terrors.  They 
cling  with  the  tenacity  of  limpets  to  the 
accustomed,  the  usual." 

"  You  admit,  then,  that  foreign  to  their 

souls  is  the  emotion  that  can  feel  *  joyous 

we  launch  out  on  trackless  seas,  fearless  for 

unknown  shores  ?  '  '  The  Poet  paused  in  his 

[99] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

occupation  of  weaving  a  wreath  of  bright- 
leaved  vines  for  Castilia's  hair. 

"  Like  Rachel  they  cannot  go  to  a  far 
country  unless  they  bear  with  them  the 
images  of  their  father's  house."  The  Bishop 
spoke  from  the  depths  of  his  experience. 

"  Ah,  there  is  an  allegory  for  you !  "  cried 
Egeria,  "  Jacob  was  fearlessly  facing  new 
conditions,  a  new  realm  of  thought,  eager 
to  explore,  to  penetrate  it;  but  Rachel  ac- 
companying him  must  needs  hamper  him 
with  the  conventional,  the  conservative — the 
gods  of  her  father's  house.  Rachel  belonged 
to  the  safe  and  sane  majority,  the  retarding 
forces  of  society." 

"  Very  necessary  forces,"  the  Judge  re- 
proved her. 

"  Very  necessary,  no  doubt,"  Egeria 
agreed  sweetly,  "  but  not  of  the  class  which 
has  ever  given  anything  new  to  the  world. 
The  novel,  the  foreign,  to  suit  them,  must 
be  pruned  and  planed  until  it  presents  the 
appearance  of  the  old,  the  familiar." 

"  If  what  you  say  is  true,"  said  the  Poet, 
adding  the  finishing  touches  to  his  wreath 
[100] 


THE  DAUGHTERS  OF  MISFORTUNE 

and  gazing  at  it  admiringly,  "  how  do  wom- 
en ever  get  along?  for  in  the  pursuit  of 
any  undertaking — fame,  fortune,  or  a  mere 
living,  one  must  take  risks.  Every  under- 
taking is  a  hazard.  To  follow  out  your 
metaphor,  Madame  Egeria,  they  must,  if 
they  would  ever  succeed  in  beaching  their 
boats,  strike  out  boldly  for  land." 

Egeria  shrugged  her  shoulders,  "  Ad- 
vance that,  and  they  would  recoil  in  terror. 
They  are  prone  to  argue  in  favor  of  cling- 
ing to  the  sinking  hulk,  hoping  against  hope, 
that  the  miracle  of  a  rescue  may  yet  befall 
them." 

"  I  sometimes  wonder,"  mused  the  Bishop, 
"  if  the  whole  of  success  does  not  lie  in 
realizing,  actually  realizing  to  the  limit  of 
one's  consciousness,  to  the  very  marrow  of 
one's  bones,  that  there  is  nothing  in  life  to 
fear  if  we  will  throw  the  unnecessary  bal- 
last of  pride  overboard  and  strike  out 
boldly." 

"  '  Henceforth,  I  ask  not  good  fortune. 
I  myself  am  good  fortune.  Henceforth,  I 
whimper  no  more,  postpone  no  more,  need 
[101] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

nothing.  Strong  and  content  I  travel  the 
open  road,'  "  quoted  the  Poet,  adding  the 
last  touches  to  his  wreath  and  placing  it 
carefully  upon  Castilia's  head. 

"  When  I  said  something  of  that  kind 
to  Ada," — a  whimsical  smile  hovered  about 
Egeria's  lips — "  she  turned  upon  me  and 
demanded,  '  Are  you  advising  me  to  take 
risks  which  might  insure  absolute  failure? 
What  a  position  should  I  be  in  then!  Why 
I  would  be  without  a  cent,  facing  old  age, 
illness,  dependence,  God  knows  what  hor- 
rors!'" 

"  What  did  you  say  ?  "  asked  the  Judge. 

"  What  could  I  say  ?  There  was  no  an- 
swer to  make  her.  If  she  feels  that  way, 
she  has  not  yet  arrived  at  the  point  where 
she  knows,  '  I  myself  am  good  for- 
tune.' " 

"  Yes,"  the  Bishop  leaned  forward  and 
spoke  earnestly,  "  and  dear,  impetuous  Ege- 
ria,  never  urge  anyone  to  take  risks  until 
he  does  feel  that  way.  Your  friend's  experi- 
ence would  probably  be  identical  with  that 
of  Job  who  remarked  many  centuries  ago, 
[102] 


THE' DAUGHTERS  OF  MISFORTUNE 
*  Behold,    the    thing    I    greatly    feared    has 
come  upon  me ! ' 

"  Castilia,  you  had  better  take  that 
wreath  off  your  head.  It  is  probably  a  poi- 
son vine."  The  Judge's  tone  was  carefully 
iced.  He  had  viewed  the  ceremony  of  her 
crowning  with  extreme  disfavor.  Castilia 
screamed  in  dismay  and  snatched  at  her 
Hebe-like  decorations ;  but  withheld  her 
hand  at  the  Poet's  scornful  and  vehement 
expostulations. 

"  To  achieve  success — "  began  the  Finan- 
cier didactically. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  Egeria  interrupted. 
"  One  never  achieves  success.  Success,  like 
the  kingdom  of  heaven,  is  within  us,  and 
like  the  kingdom  of  heaven  cometh  not  with 
observation  and  crying  '  lo  here ! '  and  *  lo 
there ! '  It  lies  in  that  one  thing  that  we 
can  do  just  a  little  differently  from  any- 
one else  in  the  world.  It  may  not  come  to 
us  through  the  accomplishment  we  have 
spent  time  and  money  in  cultivating.  It 
may  come  through  some  natural  gift,  ig- 
nored and  unsuspected  until  we  discover  the 
[103] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

possession  through  the  necessity  of  its 
use." 

"  Wasn't  there  some  famous  French- 
woman who  said  that  she  could  earn  her  own 
living  in  exactly  twenty  different  ways  ?  " 
asked  Castilia.  "  At  any  rate,  whether  she 
could  or  not,  I  am  sure  you  can,  Egeria." 

"  Most  capable  women  in  any  line  can 
echo  her  sentiments,"  Egeria  returned 
thoughtfully.  "  In  striving  to  perfect  one's 
self  in  any  chosen  occupation,  one  inevitably 
acquires  other  accomplishments  and  becomes 
conscious  of  other  powers.  Do  you  not  think 
so?  "  appealing  to  the  Bishop. 

He  smiled  acquiescence. 

"  Occasionally,"  continued  Egeria,  "  when 
a  woman  is  deploring  her  circumstances  to 
me,  bewailing  her  stunted  life,  and  asking 
me  how  she  can  bear  it,  I  reply  laconically — 
she  thinks  brutally — '  Why  bear  it  ?  '  and 
then  she  begins  to  justify  herself  by  ex- 
plaining that  personally  she  does  not  wish 
to  bear  it.  She  says,  '  I  am  very  anxious  to 
attempt  such  and  such  an  undertaking;  but 
my  friends  do  not  think  I  could  possibly 
[104] 


THE  DAUGHTERS  OF  MISFORTUNE 

succeed.  My  friends  consider  the ,  field  so 
overcrowded  that  they  deem  it  best  for  me 
to  continue  living  just  as  I  am  doing  for 
the  present.' 

"  Ah,  Bishop,"  laughing  up  at  him,  "  you 
are  'apt  to  call  me  impetuous  and  impulsive, 
you  should  see  me  then.  I  positively  tower 
in  my  righteous  anger. 

"  *  What  in  heaven's  name  have  your 
friends  to  do  with  the  matter? '  I  cry. 
'  They  are  going  their  ways,  following  their 
inclinations,  building  their  own  lives  in 
any  style  of  architecture  they  prefer — Why 
should  their  opinion  impede  or  hamper  you 
in  any  way?  Are  you  meekly  to  abandon 
your  inalienable  right  to  "  travel  the  un- 
charted "  because  of  a  few  expressed  views 
to  the  contrary?  One's  own  way  may  not  be 
much  of  a  way ;  but  it  is  all  one  has  to 
go  by.'  " 

"  '  Your  own  way  '  is  always  used  to  me 
as  a  reproach  and  a  term  of  reprobation," 
sighed  Castilia. 

"  Whose  way  is  any  better  ?  "  remarked 
Egeria.  "  We  have  all  met  persons  who  were 
[105] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

living  proof  of  that  wise  old  saw,  that  he 
who  strives  to  please  everyone  succeeds  in 
pleasing  no  one. 

"  Do  we  not  all  know  women,  who,  thrown 
upon  their  own  resources  when  no  longer 
young  and  having  to  face  life  afresh,  have 
succeeded?  One  example — there  are  always 
examples,  you  know — a  woman,  cultivated 
and  highly  educated,  found  upon  the  test 
that  her  cherished  accomplishments  really 
amounted  to  nothing  from  the  commercial 
standpoint.  'She  couldn't  find  a  market  for 
them.  They  were  practically  useless.  You 
know  whom  I  mean,  Castilia —  In  the  face 
of  an  overwhelming  disappointment,  and 
more  to  distract  her  mind  than  anything 
else,  she  turned  to  her  great  solace,  needle- 
work; and  having  some  material  at  hand, 
made  herself  two  or  three  of  the  most  ex- 
quisite and  original  blouses.  They  were  so 
much  admired  that  she  offered  to  dupli- 
cate them  for  several  of  her  friends,  with 
the  result  that  she  shortly  had  more 
orders  than  she  could  fill ;  and  now,  those 
same  friends  are  unable  to  purchase  the 
[106] 


THE  DAUGHTERS  OF  MISFORTUNE 
costumes    she    designs,    so   inaccessible    are 
her  prices." 

"  Yes,"  corroborated  Castilia,  "  and  her 
talent  for  needlework  she  did  not  even  re- 
gard as  an  accomplishment." 

"  I  know,"  continued  Egeria,  "  because  I 
am  in  touch  with  them,  that  there  are  hun- 
dreds of  women  who  are  making  a  bare  liv- 
ing by  following  the  conventional  methods 
— holding  clerical  positions,  etc. — who,  in 
confidences  more  or  less  pathetic,  will  tell 
you  of  their  longing  to  do  other  things. 

"  One  of  them  has  filled  every  space  of 
her  narrow  quarters  with  flower-pots.  Since 
childhood,  flowers  have  been  her  passion, 
and  it  would  seem  that  she  has  only  to 
thrust  a  stick  into  the  ground  to  make  it 
sprout.  And  she  says,  *  I  really  am  sure  I 
could  make  a  success  of  flower-growing ;  but 
I  dare  not  invest  my  all  in  the  attempt.'  " 

"  Yes,"  again  chimed  in  Castilia,  "  and 
we  have  a  friend  who  makes  the  most  beau- 
tiful neckwear  and  lingerie  you  ever  saw — 
dreams  of  things.  And  when  Egeria  told  her 
that  she  could  command  very  high  prices 
[107] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

for  them,  she  replied  that  she  did  not  know 
how  to  market  them.  *  Why,'  she  exclaimed, 
'  If  I  gave  up  my  position  and  devoted  my- 
self to  designing  and  making  these  things  I 
might  fail.'  " 

The  Judge  and  the  Financier  exchanged 
dismayed  glances. 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  say,"  there  was 
robust  indignation  in  the  Judge's  tones, 
"  that  you  have  actually  been  advising  a 
lot  of  women  to  throw  up  their  secure  posi- 
tions and  take  all  kinds  of  risks  in  pursuit 
of  more  congenial  occupations  which  might 
jeopardize  their  future  and  leave  them  pen- 
niless and  heartbroken." 

"  I  assure  you,"  Egeria  was  vehement, 
"  that  I  am  doing  nothing  of  the  kind ;  but 
many  women  of  enterprise,  energy  and  real 
ability  are  frequently  dissuaded  from  happy 
and  successful  achievement  by  the  raven-like 
croaking  of  friends,  who  invariably  have  at 
hand  any  number  of  harrowing  examples 
wherewith  to  illustrate  their  tales  of  dis- 
aster. I  know,  oh,  no  one  better;  that  it 
takes  a  brave  woman  to  follow  her  dream 
[108] 


THE  DAUGHTERS  OF  MISFORTUNE 
and  stand  unswervingly  by  her  purpose  in 
the  face  of  such  representations ;  but  she 
has  got  to  put  her  hand  to  the  plow  and 
never  look  back;  to  hear  the  dreary  croak- 
ings  of  the  ravens  in  her  ears;  to  watch  the 
gathering  of  dense  storm  clouds,  and  walk 
serenely  on." 

"  You  evidently  believe  the  truth  of 

'Assert  thyself,  and  by  and  by, 
The  world  will  come  and  lean  on  thee'  " 

— said  the  Poet. 

"  You  know  me  for  a  hopeless  individual- 
ist," smiled  Egeria. 

"  But  for  argument's  sake,  admit  the 
worst,"  pleaded  the  Judge.  "  Suppose  she 
does  stake  everything  on  the  chance  she  be- 
lieves in  and  meets  absolute  failure?  " 

"  Very  well,  suppose  so  then,"  Egeria  met 
him  half  -  way.  "  There  are  other  fields  in 
which  success  may  be  won,  and  if  failure 
follow  her  to  the  end,  she  can  still  say :  '  I 
at  least,  have  played  the  game.' 

"  We  are  supposing  impossibilities,  how- 
ever. I  do  not  believe  that  a  woman  can  make 
[109] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

an  earnest  trial  of  any  undertaking  within 
the  scope  of  her  powers,  and  not  succeed." 

" '  If  hopes  are  dupes,  fears  may  be 
liars,'  "  the  Poet  was  in  a  vein  of  quotation. 

"  Yes,"  nodded  the  Bishop  benignly,  "  and 
'  one  sincere  key  will  ope  many  of  fortune's 
doors.'  " 

"  We  groan  over  our  mistakes  and  fail- 
ures as  if  they  were  irrevocable  and  damn- 
ing," —  there  were  two  scarlet  spots  on 
Egeria's  cheeks — "  when  they  are  usually 
quite  the  best  things  that  could  happen  to 
us;  excellent  if  bitter  medicine.  To-day 
there  is  no  reason  why  any  woman  should 
sit  and  meekly  endure  and  make  the  best  of 
things.  If  she  has  only  one  month  of  life 
left,  or  if  sixty  years  stretch  before  her, 
there  is  still  time  to  achieve,  to  accomplish. 
What  if  she  has  sown  her  seeds  on  the  rocks ; 
and  the  wind  has  blown  them  away;  or  on 
waste  ground  and  weeds  have  sprung  up 
and  choked  them?  There  is  no  reason  why 
she  should  not  undertake  a  fresh  planting 
in  all  hope  and  enthusiasm." 

She  gazed  beyond  them  a  moment  with 
[110] 


THE  DAUGHTERS  OF  MISFORTUNE 

uplifted  face,  then  noting  that  the  sky  had 
grown  gold  and  the  river  gray,  she  sprang 
to  her  feet. 

"  But  look !  The  sun  is  sinking.  No — no — 
no,  I  will  not  let  you  drive  me  home,  Finan- 
cier. You  shall  vanish  in  a  cloud  of  dust, 
and  the  Commonplace  Man  and  I  will  trudge 
humbly  along  the  roadside,  bearing  our 
sheaves,  or  nuts,  with  us.  Good-by.  Good- 
by." 

"  Did  you  notice,"  said  Egeria,  a  few 
moments  later  to  the  Commonplace  Man 
as  they  walked  through  the  soft  twilight, 
"  that  there  was  the  usual  friction  between 
the  Judge  and  the  Poet  this  afternoon?  It 
is  reaUy  getting  tiresome.  It  is  so  stupid 
of  the  Judge  to  show  his  dislike  for  a  mere 
boy  like  the  Poet ;  and  such  a  charming  boy, 
too!" 

"  Do  you  not  know  why  ? "  asked  the 
Commonplace  Man  curiously. 

"  No,"  with  a  surprised  glance.  "  Do  you? 

It  must  be," — thoughtfully — "  that  he  does 

not  approve  of  the  very  obvious  attraction 

which  exists  between  those  two  young  peo- 

[111] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

pie.  The  Poet  hasn't  a  cent,  and  with  her 
tastes,  Castilia  needs  so  many  cents,  that  the 
Judge  probably  thinks  the  whole  affair  very 
foolish.  Do  you  not  think  that  is  the  ex- 
planation of  his  disagreeable  attitude?  " 

"  Probably,"  an  amused  smile  still  hover- 
ing about  his  lips. 

"  Why,  what  else  could  it  be  ? "  asked 
Egeria.  "  And  Castilia  is  becoming  so  af- 
fected that  I  could  shake  her.  She  plays  with 
the  Poet  with  one  eye  on  the  Judge,  and 
assumes  a  shyness  that  is  absurd.  Really, 
one  might  think  she  were  trying  to  flirt  with 
him,  the  Judge,  you  know." 

This  time  the  Commonplace  Man  laughed 
so  loud  and  long  that  he  startled  a  belated 
rabbit  lurking  in  the  weeds  by  the  wayside. 
It  dashed  out  and  tore  across  their  path, 
a  gray  streak  of  panic. 

"  Oh,"  Egeria  was  distinctly  huffy.  "  You 
do  nothing  but  laugh  and  look  mysterious. 
You  are  very  stupid.  Only  you  are  not 
really,"  with  a  smile,  her  brief  anger  van- 
ishing. "  Castilia  asked  me  a  day  or  two 
ago  why  I  was  so  fond  of  you,  and  I  told 
[112] 


THE  DAUGHTERS  OF  MISFORTUNE 
her  that  you  knew  a  secret  about  me,  and 
that  I  feared  if  I  were  not  always  extremely 
nice  to  you,  that  you  might  tell  it." 

"A  secret!  What  new  jest — "  gazing  at 
her  as  if  puzzled.  "  Ah ! "  comprehendingly, 
a  smile  creeping  around  the  corners  of  his 
mouth,  "  To  be  sure.  I  do  not  know  what 
I  would  do  without  that  stick  with  which  to 
keep  you  in  order." 

"  Do  you  ever  feel  any  temptation  to 
tell?  "  she  asked. 

"  Often." 

"But  will  you?" 

"  I  may  at  any  time,  unless  I  am  shown 
especial  consideration,"  he  warned  her. 


[113] 


WHAT   WOMEN   LIKE   TO   READ 


"The  wisest  of  the  wise 
Listen  to  pretty  lies, 

And  love  to  hear  them  told. 
Doubt  not  that  Solomon 
Listened  to  many  a  one, 

Some  in  his  youth  and  more  when  he  grew  old." 
WALTEB  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 


CHAPTER    SIX 

WHAT  WOMEN  LIKE  TO  READ 

THE  Editor  of  a  Woman's  Magazine 
happened  to  be  in  Egeria's  neighbor- 
hood and  stopped  in  to  see  her.  It  was  a 
raw  and  chilly  afternoon  with  a  biting  wind 
blowing  out  of  a  gray  sky,  and  he  rubbed 
his  hands  in  satisfaction  when  he  found  her 
alone,  reading  by  the  leaping  flame  of  a 
wood  fire. 

She  was,  as  she  professed,  delighted  to  see 
him.  "  It  has  been  one  of  those  tiresome  days 
when  one  feels  neither  in  the  mood  for  work 
or  play  and  welcomes  an  unexpected  visit 
from  a  friend  as  a  boon  from  heaven." 

He  hesitated  on  the  threshold.  "  Perhaps, 
you  would  not  welcome  me  so  kindly  if  you 
knew  my  reasons  for  coming;  two  reasons. 
One,  to  ask  your  advice;  the  other,  to  scold 
you." 

[117] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

"  Scold  me !  "  Egeria  was  a  picture  of  in- 
jured innocence.  "  Then  let  me  urge  you 
beforehand  not  to  waste  your  breath.  I  do 
not  deserve  a  scolding.  Tell  me  the  news 
instead." 

He  shook  his  head  and  adhered  to  his 
original  intention.  "  I've  been  hearing 
things."  There  was  accusation  in  his  glance. 

"  Out  with  them  then,"  her  tone  was  re- 
signed. "  I  see  that  you  must  unburden 
yourself.  But  "  —  solicitously  —  "  are  you 
quite  comfortable?  Let  me  make  you  a  nice 
hot  cup  of  tea;  and  would  you  not  like  to 
poke  the  fire?  Oh,  do  now.  I  never  knew 
anyone  whom  it  did  not  make  perfectly  hap- 
py to  be  allowed  to  poke  the  fire." 

The  Editor  laughed  in  spite  of  himself. 
"  You  are  only  putting  off  the  evil  hour," 
he  admonished,  "  for  I  came  prepared  to 
read  you  a  lecture  and  I  do  not  intend  to  be 
balked  of  my  purpose." 

"  Of  course  not,"  she  agreed  meekly.  "  It 
will  probably  be  good  for  me;  but  first, 
take  one  of  these  little  cakes ;  see  how  pret- 
tily they  are  iced,  all  in  flower  designs. 
[118] 


WHAT  WOMEN  LIKE  TO  READ 
Here  is  one  with  a  violet  on  it ;  or  will  you 
have  this  yellow-hearted  daisy?  They  are 
very  good.  And  truly  that  chair  you  are  in 
is  not  quite  comfortable ;  put  this  soft,  little 
pillow  behind  your  head." 

The  Editor  sat  upright  and  looked  at  her 
sternly.  "  No,  I  am  not  to  be  turned  from 
my  purpose  by  any  such  methods.  I  see 
through  your  subtle  necromancy.  There  is 
your  '  soft,  little  pillow '  " — casting  it  upon 
the  floor.  "  No,  I  do  not  care  for  them," — 
waving  away  the  cakes,  although  his  eye 
was  fastened  longingly  upon  them.  "  Let  me 
also  inform  you  that  I  do  not  wish  to  poke 
the  fire," — with  superb  renunciation  he  laid 
down  the  poker.  "  Retro  me  Delilah !  " 

"  Sampson  unconquered !  I  who  am  about 
to  die,  salute  thee,"  sweeping  him  a  mock- 
ing bow. 

"  Madame  Egeria,  your  friends  say " 

"  Oh,  we  all  know  what  our  friends  say. 
Can't  you  begin  with  something  milder — 
the  vituperation  of  mine  enemy?  " 

"  Your  friends  say,"  ignoring  her,  "  that 
either  for  sport  or  from  affection  for  the 
[119] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

Bishop  you  have  constituted  yourself  a 
malign  Destiny  and  are  laying  impious 
hands  on  a  beautiful  little  romance." 

Egeria  looked  honestly  bewildered.  "  When 
was  this  fairy  tale  invented?  What  are  you 
talking  about,  and  what  has  the  Bishop  to 
do  with  it?" 

"  The  Bishop  has  a  great  deal  to  do  with 
it.  It  is  said  that  an  exquisite  little  idyll 
is  being  lived  here;  youth  and  love,  beauty 
and  genius,  Castilia  and  the  Poet.  But  be- 
cause the  Poet  is  poor  and  the  Bishop  none 
too  rich,  you  have  decided  that  Castilia  is 
to  wed  the  Judge,  and,  with  diabolical  clev- 
erness, are  moving  them  all  about  as  pawns 
upon  the  chessboard  in  order  to  accomplish 
your  mercenary  desires." 

Egeria's  astonishment  died  in  mirth  and 
she  laughed  until  the  echoes  rang  through 
the  room  and  the  tears  started  to  her  eyes. 

"  What  a  comedy !  What  a  comedy ! "  she 
cried.  "  Oh,  Editor,"  seizing  his  hands  and 
shaking  them  warmly,  "  I  am  so  glad  you 
came,  and  gladder  still  that  you  persisted 
in  your  determination  to  discipline  me.  You 
[120] 


WHAT  WOMEN  LIKE  TO  READ 
reminded  me  exactly  of  John  Knox  anathe- 
matizing Mary  Stuart."  She  wiped  her  eyes 
with  her  handkerchief,  "  Oh,  thank  you 
again !  Thank  my  friends  for  me,  will  you  ? 
Oh,  what  a  blind  mole  I  have  been!  But  a 
light  breaks  upon  me." 

"  Madame  Egeria,"  the  Editor  had  seized 
the  poker  again  and  was  poking  the  fire  so 
vigorously  that  the  sparks  were  flying  in 
all  directions.  "  What  are  you  talking 
about?" 

"  I  shall  not  enlighten  you,"  brushing  a 
spark  from  her  dress.  "  It  is  my  turn  now. 
Oh,  have  a  fresh  cup  of  tea,  and  three  pil- 
lows behind  your  back,  and  a  half  dozen  of 
the  delicious  little  cakes  and  I  will  send  for 
a  poker  for  your  other  hand.  I  owe  you 
something,  Editor  man.  Oh,  where  have  my 
eyes  been !  " 

"  I  confess,"  said  the  Editor  coldly,  "  that 
I  do  not  see  the  reason  for " 

"  — my     hysterics,"     concluded     Egeria. 

"  No,  nor  do  I  intend  that  you  shall."  She 

laughed  again,  "  Come,  Editor,"  seeing  that 

he  was  sulking  visibly,  "  you  said  that  you 

[121] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

came  for  two  reasons ;  what  was  the  other 
one?" 

He  brightened  a  little.  "  I  am  thinking  of 
an  article  for  my  magazine  on  what  women 
like  to  read." 

But  it  was  Egeria's  turn  now  and  she 
took  advantage  of  it.  "  Suppose,  I  refuse 
to  enlighten  you.  Why,  if  I  told  you  I  might 
be  giving  away  the  whole  secret  of  our 
mystery  and  therefore  of  our  charm;  and 
perhaps  I  could  not  tell  you  if  I  would. 
Woman  is  a  capricious  creature  and  apt  to 
contradict  in  one  breath  the  likes  and  dis- 
likes she  has  voiced  in  another.  She  loves 
to  veil  her  individuality  as  well  as  her  com- 
plexion, and  the  most  rigidly  observed  rule 
of  one  who  knows  how  to  play  the  game  is, 
that  man  shall  lay  his  cards  on  the  table 
before  she  coyly  draws  the  aces  from  her 
sleeve.  For  several  thousand  years  she  has 
been  so  consumedly  amused  by  that  carica- 
ture of  the  gods — man — that  other  jests 
fall  flat  upon  her  ears.  Consequently,  your 
sex  has  assured  the  universe  that  she  has 
no  sense  of  humor." 

[122] 


WHAT  WOMEN  LIKE  TO  READ 

The  Editor  drooped  his  eyelids  slightly. 
It  was  a  trick  of  his  when  he  meant  to  be 
unpleasant. 

"  The  soul  of  woman,"  he  observed,  "  finds 
its  counterpart  in  a  cat.  Inscrutable,  cruel, 
forever  unrevealed,  it  watches  with  unwaver- 
ing eyes,  the  rude  but  honest  gambolings 
of  the  dog  soul  of  man." 

"  How  far  more  interesting  is  the  cat," 
cried  Egeria,  "  you  can  starve  or  beat  it ; 
you  can  kill  and  dissect  it  to  the  last  re- 
maining thread  of  nerve  tissue  and  what  have 
you  gained?  The  spirit  forever  eludes  you." 

"  The  older  religions,"  said  the  Editor 
suavely,  "  did  not  concede  to  woman  the  pos- 
session of  that  problematic  blessing — a  soul. 
She  only  claims  it  through  the  chivalry  of 
later  theologians." 

"  We  are  getting  curiously  far  from  the 
subject,  are  we  not?"  Egeria's  tone  was 
languidly  polite.  "  We  were  discussing  what 
women  like  to  read,  I  believe.  But  you  edi- 
tors have  apparently  decided  the  question 
and  that  is  the  reason  we  groan  under  the 
heavy  yoke  of  the  *  family  story.'  " 
[  123] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

"  Well,"  asked  the  Editor,  "  what  do  you 
want,  the  dissolute,  degenerate,  decadent 
tale?  " 

"  No ;  but  when  we  begin  to  prate  of 
*  bright,  fresh,  clean  literature,'  advertise  it 
and  clamor  for  it,  then  are  our  minds  al- 
ready contaminated." 

"  I  am  to  infer  then,"  argued  the  Editor 
with  some  heat,  "  that  you  agree  with  John 
Oliver  Hobbes  in  her  belief  that  the  young 
girl  of  to-day  should  read  '  Tom  Jones  '  and 
other  like  classics.  Now  I  ask  you  if  you 
really  consider  '  Tom '  a  suitable  compan- 
ion for  girls  ?  " 

"  Well,"  mused  Egeria,  "  you  know  what 
Gibbon  said  about  him — that  he  would  be 
remembered  when  the  Escurial  was  in 
ruins." 

"  I  do  not  care  what  Gibbon  said  about 
him,"  replied  the  Editor  testily.  "  He  is  ex- 
tremely rough  and  coarse  and  sure  to  steal 
any  girl's  illusions  and  destroy  the  bloom 
of  her  innocence." 

"Pish!  Tish!"  scoffed  Egeria,  "What 
are  illusions  anyway  ?  " 

[124] 


WHAT  WOMEN  LIKE  TO  READ 

"  Beautiful  iridescent  bubbles,"  cried  the 
Editor.  "  The  stuff  that  dreams  are  made 
of." 

"  But  glass  marked  perishable,  with  a 
protective  tariff  so  high,  that  the  duty  paid 
in  heartaches,  is  apt  to  bankrupt  the  pos- 
sessor. And  the  bloom  of  innocence  is " 

"  The  most  divine  thing  in  the  world," 
the  Editor  interrupted. 

"  Hm-mm-m,"  Egeria  sniffed.  "  A  com- 
mercial commodity  like  rouge,  lending  the 
same  ephemeral  attraction  and  causing  fu- 
ture suffering  in  proportion  to  the  amount 
of  bloom.  Now  isn't  it  just  as  well  to  let 
some  of  the  children  of  great  fiction  filch 
a  few  of  the  bubbles  and  flick  off  a  bit  of 
the  rose-flush,  since  life  and  man  combined 
are  eventually  going  to  smash  all  the  illu- 
sions, and  rub  off  the  bloom  so  ungently 
that  the  young  person  may  thank  her  stars 
if  she  is  not  skinned  in  the  process?  Why 
should  she  be  guarded  so  tenderly  from 
great,  truthful  literature,  written  by  the 
masters  who  '  saw  life  steadily  and  saw  it 
whole ' ;  only  to  be  thrust  into  the  arena 
[125] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

to  fight  with  the  beasts  at  Ephesus,  after 
being  carefully  trained  in  the  belief  that 
Ephesus  has  no  beasts  ?  " 

The  Editor  feinted.  "  I  know  you  write. 
Everyone  does  now.  Then  why,  instead  of 
devoting  yourself  to  criticism,  do  you  not 
give  us  the  thing  that  women  really  like  to 
read?  " 

"  I  do  not  write,"  she  said,  "  but  do  you 
think  I  couldn't?  "  Smiling  to  herself,  she 
lifted  a  notebook  from  a  table  near  her  and 
scribbled  rapidly  for  a  few  moments.  Then 
she  read: 

"  '  Wharnton  acutely  and  somewhat  con- 
sciously, as  it  appeared  to  him  later,  suc- 
ceeded in  apprehending  a  situation  which, 
no  matter  how  admirably  he  concealed,  and, 
in  a  measure,  felt  that  his  conscience  abetted 
and  condoned  his  intimate  and  ultimate  con- 
clusion, yet  by  some  strange  exclusion  of 
other  emotions,  subtler  and  more  com- 
plex  ' 

"  There !  "    she    exclaimed    triumphantly, 
"  Do  you  not  think  that  would  go  well  in 
certain  periodicals?  Now  how  is  this  for  the 
[126J 


WHAT  WOMEN  LIKE  TO  READ 

magazines  that  want  *  good,  strong,  vital 
stuff '  ? 

"  Blue  Janders  sat  upon  the  arid,  baked 
ground  of  the  desert,  removing  the  cactus 
spines  from  his  feet,  *  I  'low  the  whole  lot  of 
blamed,  low-down,  pizen-pup  kiotes'll  be  on 
my  trail  'fore  the  sun  gits  tired  o'  paintin' 
them  rocks  yander  an'  throws  down  his 
brush  for  the  night.' ' 

"  Some  more  tea,"  cried  the  Editor,  "  the 
sand  gets  in  my  throat." 

"  Something  lighter  ? "  asked  Egeria 
mercilessly.  "  Here's  a  bit  from  still  another 
class  of  journals: 

"  *  Jimmy  Isinglass  lounged  into  Mrs. 
Bobby  Crescendo's  drawing-room.  Jimmy 
was  admirably  turned  out  by  his  man,  Wil- 
kins,  as  the  scarlet  and  gold  lackeys  lining 
Mrs.  Bobby's  marble  halls  were  aware.  Mrs. 
Bobby  was  a  picture  herself.  Not  for  noth- 
ing had  four  French  maids  given  her  their 
undivided  attention  that  afternoon.  "  Hello, 
Jim ! "  she  cried  in  her  high,  merry  voice. 
Jimmy  Isinglass  laughed  at  her  audacious 
wit.  Then  he  went  white.  "  My  lady,  my 
[127] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

lady,"  he  murmured,  pressing  her  heavily 
jeweled  fingers  to  his  burning  lips.' ' 

The  Editor  refused  to  laugh. 

"  You  insist  on  fooling,"  he  said  re- 
proachfully, "  and  I  came  to  you  in  all  faith 
and  hope.  I  asked  you  seriously,  what  wom- 
en like  to  read." 

Egeria  abandoned  her  gayeties. 

"  What  do  women  like  to  read  ?  "  she  re- 
peated thoughtfully,  and  sat  watching  the 
flames  for  a  moment  in  silence.  "  I  do  not 
believe  that  women  crave  any  different  meat 
than  that  upon  which  our  Caesars  feed,"  she 
advanced  finally.  "  It  is  stupid  and  trivial 
to  try  and  please  a  class.  Real  literature 
is  universal  and  simple,  and  appeals  to  the 
universal  heart.  It  makes  no  difference 
whether  the  heart  beats  beneath  a  coat  or 
bodice.  But  when,  O  Editor,  shall  we  get 
away  from  our  lyrics,  and  our  genre  pic- 
tures of  life?  When  shall  we  cease  to  write 
our  vaporous,  thin  novels?  When  will  we 
cleanse  our  pages  from  the  taint  of  puri- 
tanism  and  refuse  to  allow  our  work  to  be 
characterized  by  an  attenuated  daintiness 
[128] 


WHAT  WOMEN  LIKE  TO  READ 
and   anaemic    refinement?   When,   when    shall 
we  realize  that  miniature  painting  is  not  the 
all  of  art  and  that  as  a  nation  we  are  not 
lyric  but  epic? 

"  Our  national  genius  has  been  given  to 
the  task  of  conquering  nature  first,  and 
then  to  the  organization  of  great  industries 
and  their  subsequent  formation  into  im- 
mense and  intricate  combinations.  As  a  peo- 
ple we  have  been  forced  by  our  environment 
to  achieve,  to  conquer,  and  that  spirit  is 
incorporated  in  us.  It  has  become  bone  of 
our  bone  and  flesh  of  our  flesh.  The  national 
genius  has  then  been  typified  in  our  finan- 
ciers and  they  have  risen  to  the  stature  of 
the  continent ;  in  consequence,  we  have  a 
purely  material  expression ;  but  the  material 
only  symbolizes  the  real,  and  the  artist  will 
yet  come  who  will  gather  up  all  the  rough, 
tangled  threads  and  weave  them  into  a  tap- 
estry where  we  shall  see  pictured  our  na- 
tional life. 

"  He  must  voice  the  message  of  the  great, 
cold,  ice  peaks  of  our  mountains   standing 
austere  and  remote  under  the  stars ;  of  our 
[129] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

smiling,  infinite  fields  of  corn  and  wheat 
stretching  to  unseen  horizons ;  of  our  cities 
that  spring  up  in  a  night;  our  deserts,  our 
forests,  our  varied  and  prodigal  earth  which 
has  demanded  of  man  his  painful  and  sus- 
tained toil  to  wrest  her  treasures  from 
her. 

"  When  the  writer  permits  himself  to  re- 
spond to  but  one  phase  of  literature,  '  A  rose 
in  a  moonlit  garden,  the  shadow  of  trees 
on  the  turf,  almond  bloom,  scent  of  pine, 
the  wine  cup  and  the  guitar,'  he  has  been 
false  to  his  American  inheritance.  The  tre- 
mendous landscape  frightens  him,  and  he 
limits  himself  to  the  exquisite  portrayal  of 
detail  on  two  by  four  canvasses.  He  adores 
the  shadow  and  the  hush  of  Literature's 
haunted  past,  and  thus  he  becomes  academic, 
of  the  schools — and  is  dead.  To  be  alive,  he 
must  feel  in  every  fiber  of  him,  the  spirit 
expressed  in  those  rolling  sentences  of 
Fiske's : 

"  *  It  begins  to  dawn  on  us  that  in  the 
New- World  events  there  is  a  rare  and  potent 
fascination;  not  only   is  there  the  interest 
[130] 


WHAT  WOMEN  LIKE  TO  READ 
of  their  present  importance,  which  nobody 
would  be  likely  to  deny,' — mark  that  Editor 
— '  but  there  is  the  charm  of  an  historic 
past  as  full  of  romance  as  any  chapter  what- 
ever in  the  annals  of  mankind,'  and 

"  '  Never  has  historian  grappled  with  an- 
other such  epic  theme,  save  when  Herodotus 
told  the  story  of  Greece  and  Persia,  and 
Gibbon's  pages  resounded  with  the  solemn 
tread  of  marshaled  hosts  through  a  thou- 
sand years  of  change.' 

"  And  it  is  felt,"  rising  and  pacing  the 
floor  in  her  enthusiasm.  "  Believe  me,  Edi- 
tor, '  the  light  of  the  future  draws  nigh 

'And  out  of  the  infinite  morning 
Intrepid,  you  hear  us  cry.'  " 

The  Editor  meditatively  poked  the  fire. 
"  Your  views  are  interesting ;  but  not  en- 
lightening. You  have  kindly  given  me  an 
abstract  dissertation  on  literature;  but  you 
have  not  " — there  was  some  sharpness  in  his 
voice — "  yet  told  me  what  women  like  to 
read." 

[131] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

Egeria  laughed.  "  Once  in  a  moment  of 
confidence,  a  hard-working  miner's  life,  the 
mother  of  seven  children,  drew  aside  a  cur- 
tain from  a  shelf  in  her  kitchen,  and  exposed 
to  my  naked  and  unashamed  gaze  transla- 
tions of  half  a  dozen  of  the  most  notorious 
French  classics,  with  a  score  of  other  works 
of  fiction  less  admirably  written,  but  equally 
instructive.  '  And  just  why?  '  I  asked.  '  Oh,' 
she  replied,  *  I  get  so  tired  of  this  ugly, 
old  dish- washing,  calico-dress  life  that  I  like 
to  read  about  women  who  just  raise  the 
devil.' 

"  Again  I  heard  a  sad,  bad,  nearly  mad 
woman  exclaim :  '  I  want  to  read  a  sweet, 
charming  little  idyll  of  the  woods  and  fields ; 
something  with  the  atmosphere  of  apple 
blossoms  and  youth  and  springtime.' 

"  The  girl  who  works  for  her  living  has 
an  eternal  curiosity  concerning  her  sisters 
who  toil  not,  and  she  revels  in  the  details 
of  opulence.  Else  that  bar  sinister  of  the 
feminine  intellect  —  the  woman's  page  — 
could  not  exist.  She  reads  with  bated  breath 
those  printed,  naively  snobbish  accounts  of 
[132] 


WHAT  WOMEN  LIKE  TO  READ 
the    outgoings    and    the    incomings    of    our 
millionairesses.  She  gloats  over  the  number 
of    '  madame's '    personal     attendants,    her 
wardrobe,  her  perfumes,  her  amusements. 

"  The  wealthy  young  woman  desires  to 
know  more  of  the  life  of  the  daughters  of 
toil.  To  that  end  she  studies  sociology  and 
goes  into  settlement  work,  and  attempts  to 
instruct,  and  uplift  and  meddle  generally." 

"  However,"  broke  in  the  Editor,  with 
an  air  of  finality,  "  there  is  some  common 
ground.  All  women  like  to  read  of  a  new 
recipe  for  custard  pudding  and  the  latest 
way  to  make  over  a  last  year's  basque." 

"  You  mean,"  corrected  Egeria,  gently, 
"  that  that  is  a  man's  view  of  what  women 
like.  Personally,  I  never  knew  anyone  who 
enjoyed  custard  pudding,  and  a  basque!  A 
basque  ?  "  wrinkling  her  brow.  "  Oh,  I  be- 
lieve I've  heard  my  mother  speak  of  them. 
Since  man  first  emerged  from  caves,  he  has 
dogmatized  about  woman.  He  has  frequently 
averred  that  the  lady  novelist — a  pet  and 
early  Victorian  phrase — has  never  succeeded 
in  portraying  a  man.  Her  attempts  are 
[133] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

either  '  governesses  in  trousers  '  or  gorillas. 
Then  he  points  with  pride  to  Brown  or 
Jones.  '  Look  at  Brown,'  he  exclaims.  '  He 
has  shown  an  intuitive  knowledge  of  the 
subtlest  and  most  intimate  feminine  emo- 
tions ;  has  literally  taken  apart  and  ex- 
plained the  mechanism  of  a  woman's  brain. 
Why,  he  has  impaled  you  women  on  the 
pages  of  his  books  as  an  entomologist  glues 
butterflies  to  a  card.' 

"  Or :  '  Read  Jones,'  he  says  patroniz- 
ingly. *  He  knows  you  women  better  than 
you  know  yourselves.  The  critics  all  agree 
that  no  one  has  ever  so  divined  and  depicted 
the  feminine  heart.' 

"  And  woman,  complaisant  woman,  does 
not  even  talk  back.  She  merely  lowers  her 
eyelids  and  smiles." 

"  And  permits  you  to — er — dogmatize  for 
her,"  murmured  the  Editor.  "  But  before  I 
go,  what  do  women  like  to  read?  " 

"What  do  men  like  to  read?  What  does 
anyone  like  to  read?  "  Egeria  was  petulant. 
"  The  answer  is,  whatever  serves  as  a  stimu- 
lus   to    the    imagination ;    whatever   pictures 
[134] 


WHAT  WOMEN  LTKE  TO  READ 
for  each  individual  the  phase  of  life  which 
most  appeals  to  him.  It  may  be  the  veriest 
trash.  It  may  be  the  sincerest  art;  but 
the  reason  for  liking  it  lies  within  one's 
self." 

"  There  should  be  some  unanimity  of 
taste,"  remarked  the  Editor  sulkily.  "  It 
would  simplify  things  for  us.  We've  gone 
on  the  principle  that  it  exists  in  order  to 
supply  ourselves  with  a  working  basis." 

"  True,"  sighed  Egeria.  "  Hence  the  mag- 
azines. Ah,  going !  "  She  laughed  mischiev- 
ously as  she  shook  hands  warmly  in  fare- 
well. "  Do  come  soon  again.  There  is  no  one 
in  the  world  with  whom  I  so  heartily  enjoy 
quarreling  as  yourself.  And," — calling  after 
him  as  he  vanished  through  the  hangings 
before  the  door,  "  thank  you  again  for  your 
scolding.  I  shan't  forget  the  hint  you  gave 
me." 

He  came  back.  "  If  I  did  not  have  to  look 
after  the  make-up  of  my  magazine,  I  should 
remain  here  until  you  told  me  what  you 
meant  by  our  cryptic  actions  and  remarks," 
he  spoke  firmly. 

[135] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

**  Oh,  no,  you  would  not/'  returned  Ege- 
ria  coolly,  "  I  do  not  know  what  your  make- 
up may  be;  but — "  rubbing  her  hand  over 
her  smooth  cheek,  "  since  I  dine  out  to-night, 
it  is  time  I  was  looking  after  mine.*' 


[136] 


WORK    VS.    BEAUTY 


"  Would  she  have  heart  to  endure  for  the  life  of  the  worm 

and  the  fly? 

She  desires  no  isles  of  the  blest,  no  quiet  seats  of  the  just, 
To  rest  in  a  golden  grove,  or  to  bask  in  a  summer  sky: 
Give  her  the  wages  of  going  on,  and  not  to  die." 

TENNYSON. 


CHAPTER    SEVEN 
WORK    VS.   BEAUTY 

ASTILIA,  the  Bishop,  the  Judge,  the 
Commonplace  Man  and  the  Poet  had 
all  been  having  luncheon  with  Egeria,  and  al- 
though it  was  getting  on  toward  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon,  they  still  sat  about  the 
table. 

Egeria  lifted  her  chin  to  smile  at  the  Bishop 
across  the  great  basket  of  bronze,  serrated 
oak-leaves,  purple  asters  and  plumy  golden- 
rod  in  the  center  of  the  board.  The  room  was 
full  of  a  faint,  delicious  odor ;  it  combined  the 
musky  fragrance  of  the  white,  bloomy  grapes 
with  the  bouquet  of  the  smooth,  crimson  cor- 
dial in  the  tiny  glasses  and  the  tang  of  the 
black  coffee  steaming  in  little  cups.  The  light 
curtains  blew  back  from  the  open  windows 
and  the  square  sashes  framed  pictures  of  the 
garden  staid  and  luxuriant,  dreaming  under 
[139] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

the  noonday  sun.  A  honey  bee  had  flown  in 
and,  after  hovering  over  the  fruit  and  flowers 
in  buzzing  circles,  had  finally  settled  on  the 
Bishop's  liqueur  glass. 

The  Bishop  smiled  benignly.  "  Beautiful, 
industrious  little  thing !  I  am  delighted  to  ex- 
tend to  you  the  hospitality  of  my  wine  cup." 

"  *  Priggish  example  of  the  frugal  vir- 
tues,' you  mean,"  jeered  the  Poet.  "  I  detest 
bees  and  ants.  They  are  so  self-sufficient,  and 
they  take  themselves  so  seriously,  because  of 
their  vaunted  industry." 

"  I  wish  it  had  stayed  out,"  said  the  Com- 
monplace Man,  his  eyes  fixed  gloomily  on  the 
bee  which  was  apparently  sipping  a  bead  on 
the  edge  of  the  glass  with  great  enjoyment. 
"  It  reminds  me  that  I  must  go  back  to  the 
grind  to-morrow." 

"  And  you  know  that  in  your  heart  you  are 
glad,"  laughed  Egeria.  "  You  have  en j  oyed 
your  holiday — perhaps — "  She  glanced  at 
him  from  under  her  lashes. 

He  smiled  for  answer;  but  there  was  a 
trace  of  bitterness  in  his  smile. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  answered  laconically. 
[140] 


WORK  V8.  BEAUTY 

"  Yes,"  she  went  on  rapidly,  "  you  have  en- 
joyed your  holiday,  but  you  know  that  in 
your  heart,  you  are  longing  to  get  back  to 
the  grind,  as  you  call  it.  You  are  used  to  the 
harness,  you  know." 

"  Exactly."  His  eyes  were  fixed  gravely 
upon  hers,  but  there  was  a  hint  of  derision  in 
the  bow  with  which  he  agreed  to  her  words. 

"  Work !  Work !  I  wonder  if  it  isn't  nicer 
than  idling?  "  mused  Castilia.  "  I  often  envy 
Egeria  her  studio,  and  her  paints  and  brushes 
and  general  absorption.  I  would  love  to  work 
if  I  only  knew  how,  or  at  what,  or  for  what 
reason." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  Egeria  remarked. 
"  It  delights  me  that  you  occasionally  have 
moments  of  divine  discontent  with  your  friv- 
olities." 

The  Judge  smiled  at  Castilia  and  opened 
his  mouth  as  if  about  to  speak ;  but  the  Poet 
forestalled  him. 

"  Do  not  listen  to  her,"  he  begged  Castilia, 

"  and  quickly  expel  such  morbid  notions.  It  is 

a   horrid  idea   to   get  into  your  head.   You 

work!"  there  was  positive  horror  in  his  ex- 

[141] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

claraation.  "  You  should  ask  nothing  but  to 
grow  and  blow  in  that  calm  and  infinite 
leisure  where  beauty  flowers."  The  Judge 
stirred  restlessly  in  his  chair  and  rattled  his 
coffee  cup  ostentatiously  in  the  saucer.  The 
Poet  ignored  the  interruption.  "  The  lilies, 
types  of  perfection,  toil  not  neither  spin,  and 
what  has  remote  and  romantic  beauty  to  do 
with  a  mundane  moil  of  this  work-a-day 
world!  It  should  shine  afar,"  he  gazed  at 
Castilia  in  rapt  admiration,  his  chin  on  his 
hand,  "  in  an  environment  of  *  rose-latticed 
casements,  lone  in  summer  lands,'  or  on 
4  magic  seas  in  an  enchanted  barge,  stranded 
at  sunset  upon  jeweled  sands.' ' 

"  Egeria  believes  in  work,"  said  Castilia  de- 
fensively. 

"  Ah,  indeed  I  do,"  affirmed  that  positive 
lady.  "  It  is  at  once  a  narcotic  and  a  goad, 
a  solace  and  a  stimulant ;  life's  sternest  man- 
date and  its  highest  good.  My  poor  Castilia, 
you  are  missing  much  in  not  finding  some 
work  for  your  hand  to  do." 

The  Poet  looked  shocked.  "  Missing 
much ! "  he  repeated  scornfully.  "  It  is  a 


WORK  VS.  BEAUTY 

shame  and  a  pity  that  through  stress  of  ne- 
cessity women  should  have  to  toil;  but  why, 
Madame  Egeria,  when  the  necessity  does  not 
exist,  should  you  relinquish  what  through 
many  ages  has  been  your  most  potent  weapon, 
your  most  cherished  possession.  Is  it  not  the 
fiat  of  toil  that  you  should  sacrifice  your  ra- 
diance to  her  demands  ?  " 

"  But  I  do  not  believe  that  the  radiance 
must  suffer,"  protested  Egeria,  "  I  think  it  is 
improved  by  work." 

"  Hear !  Hear !  "  cried  the  Judge  with  some 
show  of  interest.  "  Here  is  food  for  an  ar- 
gument. The  question  now  before  the  court 
is,  Can  the  lion — work,  lie  down  with  the  pro- 
tean and  elusive  lamb — beauty;  or  will  the 
lion  inevitably  and  inexorably  gobble  up  the 
lamb?" 

The  Bishop  fell  into  line.  "  The  question," 
he  said  with  pursed  mouth  and  frowning 
brow,  "  is  incapable  of  being  answered  by  a 
sharp  and  definite  yes  or  no.  It  is  a  query  that 
compels  casuistry  and  involves  one  in  philo- 
sophical subtleties." 

Egeria  threw  up  her  hands  in  dismay. 
[143] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

"  See  what  you  have  drawn   me   into,"   she 
turned  reproachfully  to  the  Poet. 

"  It  will  not  be  for  long,"  he  consoled  her. 
"  I  shall  soon  finish  with  you.  Take  the  women 
who  labor  on  the  lowest  scale,  where  life  is  one 
monotonous  round  of  toil.  They  are  entirely 
bereft  of  that  rest  and  recreation  which  are 
as  necessary  to  the  preservation  of  beauty  as 
material  needs." 

"  I  do  not  consider  your  illustration  quite 
a  fair  one.  I  think  we  must  exclude  unceasing 
manual  labor.  The  extremes  of  poverty  and 
wealth  have  an  equally  brutalizing  effect. 
But  nevertheless  Poet,  beauty  does  occasion- 
ally bloom  in  the  soil  you  mention  and  not  al- 
ways so  infrequently  as  you  might  imagine." 

"  Egeria  is  of  course  judging  from  the  re- 
sult of  her  observations,"  the  Bishop  care- 
fully poured  a  thimbleful  more  cordial  into 
his  glass.  "  Now  my  dear,  have  you  found 
beauty  in  any  of  its  numerous  shapes,  either 
of  the  flesh,  or  the  spirit,  or  gloriously  com- 
pounded, most  at  a  discount  among  the  idlers 
or  the  toilers  ?  " 

Egeria  pondered  a  second.  Then — "  Cer- 
[144] 


WORK  VS.  BEAUTY 

tainly    among   the  drones,"    she   replied   de- 
cisively. 

"Drones!  And  just  what  class  of  women 
do  you  call  the  drones  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they  are'  in  a  class  by  themselves," 
quickly.  "  They  have  chosen  stagnation  for 
their  portion." 

"  Drones,  drones,"  repeated  the  Judge 
tapping  meditatively  upon  the  table.  "  Be- 
fore we  go  on,  I  want  more  light  on  the  sub- 
ject. Just  what  are  the  drones?  " 

"  Yes,"  the  Bishop  nodded  his  head  ap- 
provingly, "  I  think  that  we  require  a  more 
complete  definition." 

"  Drones ! "  Egeria  seemed  surprised  at 
their  lack  of  comprehension.  "  Oh — Drones 
are  what  might  be  called  detached  women. 
They  must  not,  however,  be  confounded  with 
women  of  leisure  who  put  that  gift  of  God 
to  beautiful  uses.  They  may  be  married  or 
single;  but  their  lives  are  spent  in  a  perpet- 
ual effort  to  rid  themselves  of  as  many  re- 
sponsibilities as  possible.  Life  to  them  is  an 
unending  search  for  bargains,  material,  men- 
tal, spiritual." 

[145] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

"  Hm-m !  Yes,"  said  the  Judge.  "  I  find  it 
rather  vague,  however.  To  be  more  exact,  in 
what  manner  do  they  occupy  themselves?  " 

"  I  know,"  cried  Castilia,  "  they  sew  a  lit- 
tle, they  read  a  few  of  the  new  novels,  they 
gossip  enormously,  they  grasp  greedily  at 
whatever  social  pleasures  come  their  way — 
do  they  not?  " — appealing  to  Egeria. 

She  nodded.  "  In  plain  speech,  they  are 
parasites,  demanding  everything  of  the  world 
and  giving  nothing;  and,  as  the  years  pass, 
they  reap  what  they  have  sown.  They  live 
without  definite  aims  and  interests,  absorbed 
in  the  trivial,  the  banal,  the  frivolous  and 
fleeting;  and  Time,  the  satirist,  molds  each 
according  to  his  thought. 

"  Ah  Poet !  The  slow,  sure  years  disclose 
them  fat,  heavy  of  eye  and  scant  of  breath, 
with  the  animated  intelligence  of  pug  dogs. 
They  ask  no  more  than  to  lie  in  a  warm  bas- 
ket and  be  fed  with  dainties ;  or  else  they  be- 
come lean  and  sallow,  absorbed  in  symptoms 
and  operations. 

"  And  thus  they  perish,  victims  of  the  pam- 
pered self,  unheeding  the  plain  handwriting 
[146] 


WORK  VS.  BEAUTY 

on  the  wall,  that  life  renews  itself  in  our  in- 
terests and  enthusiasms ;  that  it  is  the  spirit 
which  quickens,  the  flesh  profiteth  nothing. 
It  is  really  and  truly  the  part  of  wisdom  to 
cultivate  an  interest  if  we  have  it  not." 

"  Does  the  interest  have  to  be  a  very  rare 
and  special  one,  or  will  any  old  thing  do  ?  " 
asked  the  Judge  quizzically. 

"  Any  old  one  will  do,"  Egeria  assured  him 
lightly.  "  It  is  the  interest  itself  and  the  en- 
thusiasm you  put  into  it,  which  is  necessary, 
not  the  channel  into  which  you  pour  it." 

"  Egeria  believes,"  said  the  Bishop,  "  that 
the  law — not  your  law,  Judge — that  the  law 
is: 

'Give  thyself  utterly  away.    Be  lost. 
Choose  some  one — something;   not   thyself,  thine 

own: 

Thou  canst  not  perish;  but,  thrice  greater  grown, 
Thy  gain  was  greatest  where  thy  loss  was  most.' " 

"  I  never  heard  that  the  roses  and  lilies 
pursued  an  interest  in  life  as  a  means  of  pre- 
serving their  bloom."  The  Poet's  tone  was 
scoffing.  "  Naure's  methods  seem  more  ma- 
terial. I  was  talking  to  your  gardener  the 
[147] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

other  day  about  your  roses,  Madame  Egeria, 
praising  their  perfection  and  admiring  their 
luxuriance.  '  Oh,  anyone  can  have  fine  roses,' 
he  replied  deprecatingly,  '  if  they  feeds  'em 
enough.  Roses  do  be  gross  feeders,  sir.' ' 

'"Oh  Science  knows  each  flower  that  grows 
And  all  its  wicked  habits ! 
For  aught  you  know,  the  lilies  blow 
By  dining  on  Welsh  rabbits.'  " 

chanted  Castilia  gayly. 

Egeria  laughed  with  the  rest  and  then 
grew  serious.  "  Nevertheless,  I  maintain  that 
the  stimulus  of  a  new  interest  has  a  more 
beautifying  effect  than  either  good  food,  or 
fresh  air ;  although,  understand  me,  I  am  not 
belittling  those  two  admirable  aids.  And  I 
can  prove  my  case  in  one  point  at  least.  On 
one  occasion  when  I  was  investigating  flori- 
culture and  the  growing  of  small  fruits  as 
an  occupation  for  women,  a  successful  flower 
grower,  who  happened  also  to  be  a  particu- 
larly beautiful  girl  and  the  picture  of  health, 
told  me  that  she  had  always  been  extremely 
delicate,  and  since  childhood  had  been  al- 
[148] 


WORK  VS.  BEAUTY 

most  constantly  under  the  care  of  a  physi- 
cian. When  she  decided  to  become  a  practical 
florist,  her  friends  shook  their  heads  and  pre- 
dicted immediate  disaster  to  her  venture  and 
sudden  death  for  her.  As  if  to  verify  their 
predictions,  the  first  season  that  her  green- 
houses were  completed,  an  exceptionally  cold 
winter  set  in ;  but  she  had  become  so  pro- 
foundly interested  in  the  care  of  her  plants, 
and  felt  so  earnestly  the  necessity  of  keeping 
her  houses  at  a  proper  temperature  that  she 
not  only  gave  the  matter  her  personal  super- 
vision by  day,  but  by  night  also,  and  slept 
only  in  snatches.  Then,  too,  her  roses,  of 
which  she  had  made  a  specialty,  required  her 
most  absorbing  care.  Every  leaf  had  to  be  • 
sprayed  daily  in  order  to  keep  at  bay  the  in- 
sidious red  spider,  and  she  frequently  exerted 
her  strength  to  the  utmost  in  dragging  about 
coils  of  a  heavy  hose.  More  times  than  not, 
she  was  drenched  to  the  skin,  and  for  her  feet 
to  be  wet  an  hour  or  two  at  a  time  was  a  com- 
mon occurrence.  She  was  constantly  moving 
from  one  extreme  of  temperature  to  another, 
working  first  in  the  hot,  moist  atmosphere 
[149] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

of  the  greenhouses,  and  then  in  the  open 
air. 

"  Herself  was  the  last  person  to  enter  her 
head.  She  had  ventured  her  all  in  this  project, 
and  it  was  imperative  that  she  succeed.  She 
put  her  energy,  her  time,  her  constant 
thought  into  her  work  and  won,  not  only  a 
wider  success  than  she  had  dreamed;  but — 
listen  well,  Poet — restored  health  and  the 
beauty  which  had  been  eclipsed  when  she 
lacked  the  cosmetic  of  an  absorbing  interest 
in  life." 

The  Poet  remained  unconvinced.  "  I  think 
you  lay  entirely  too  much  stress  on  that  ab- 
sorbing interest.  I  admit  that  when  the  ques- 
tion of  beauty  is  under  discussion,  one's  pre- 
conceived and  properly  directed  ideas  are 
apt  to  become  completely  disorganized," — 
his  eyes  turned  again  to  Castilia — "  But  I 
think  there  are  far  more  potent  agents  than 
your  '  absorbing  interest.'  Surely,  surely,  the 
mere  breathing  of  pure,  country  air,  the 
wide,  sweet  freedom  of  Nature,  must  of  them- 
selves confer  a  harmonious  and  inestimable 
symmetry  and  bloom.  You  recall  that: 
[150] 


WORK  VS.  BEAUTY 

"  'The  Ladies  of  St.  James's 
Are  painted  to  the  eyes: 
Their  white  it  stays  forever, 
Their  red  it  never  dies. 
But  Phillida,  my  Phillida! 
Her  color  comes  and  goes, 
And  wavers  to  a  lily, 
And  trembles  to  a  rose.' " 

"  Yes  " ;  but  it  often  seems  to  be  just  the 
reverse  in  fact.  Wait  a  moment."  Egeria 
opened  a  bag  at  her  side  and  drew  forth 
a  heterogeneous  collection  of  clippings. 
"  Here,"  she  cried  triumphantly,  "  is  an  ex- 
tract from  an  article  written  by  an  English- 
woman ;  she  says :  *  I  am  concerned  to  know 
why  the  girls  who  live  in  the  country,  breath- 
ing the  best  air,  eating  the  best  food,  having 
the  best  opportunities  of  exercise  and  sport 
are  not  always  the  best  girls.  For  that  they 
are  not  always  the  best  girls,  I  am  prepared 
to  prove. 

"  *  I  have  two  girls  in  mind,"  she  continues. 

'  From  the  first  day  that  cub-hunting  opens 

to  the  day  that  your  horse  can't  put  his  foot 

down  for  primroses  and  slippery  blue  hya- 

[151] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

cinths,  one  young  woman  lives  for  hunting, 
and  as  she  is  always  admirably  mounted  and 
rides  very  straight,  she  gets  all  the  fun  out 
of  it  that  can  be  expected.  Five  days  of  the 
week  she  spends  in  the  free,  open  air  on  the 
back  of  a  horse ;  deep  breathing  is  practically 
forced  on  her,  her  lungs  are  filled  and  washed 
by  the  exquisite  air  of  down  and  woodland. 
Her  muscles  are  in  free  play,  for  the  negotia- 
tion of  a  "  trappy  "  country  entails  an  im- 
mense variety  of  positions  in  the  saddle.  She 
ought  to  be  a  splendid-looking  girl,  you 
would  say.  She  is  not  at  all.  I  would  engage 
to  pick  out  in  any  large  establishment  where 
the  work  is  done  standing  for  long  hours  in 
an  atmosphere  necessarily  less  pure  than  that 
of  the  open  country — twenty  girls  who  are 
better-looking,  have  better  figures  and  carry 
themselves  better. 

"  '  The  other  girl  I  spoke  of  is  a  capital 
tennis  and  hocky  player,  and  she  hunts  all 
winter  in  a  crack  county,  but  to  see  her  walk 
into  a  room  is  a  revelation  of  ungraceful 
movement.' 

-    "And  she  finishes  by  saying,"   continued 
[152] 


WORK  VS.  BEAUTY 

Egeria,  "  that  '  if  we  are  to  admit  that  shop 
girls  constantly  display  a  better  carriage,  a 
more  graceful  walk  and  poise  generally  than 
country  house  girls,  we  must  admit  one  of 
two  things — either  that  fine  air,  deep  breath- 
ing, sound  muscle  play  are  not  necessary  to 
beauty,  or  that,  being  necessary  to  it,  there  is 
something  else  necessary  as  well  which  the 
town  girl  with  half  the  oxygen,  and  none  of 
the  exercise  manages  to  secure.' ' 

"  Now,  there ! "  said  Egeria,  folding  up 
her  clipping,  "  are  facts  which  everyone  has 
noted,  and  which  would  seem  to  affirm  that 
beauty  is  not  altogether  a  thing  of  material 
needs;  but  may  draw  its  sustenance  from 
other  avenues  than  the  purely  animal  necessi- 
ties. Really,  Poet,  it  looks  as  if  work,  indus- 
trial and  professional,  has  not  had  that 
blighting  influence  upon  feminine  loveliness 
which  has  so  long  been  predicted. 

"The  College  girls  of  to-day;  Castilia  is 
one  of  them,  are  putting  forth  a  greater  men- 
tal effort  than  their  sisters  who  have  not 
pined  for  what  used  to  be  called  the  higher 
education,  and  they  show  no  decline  in 
[  153  ] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

beauty.  They  are  as  fresh  and  fair  as  those 
who  have  no  ambition  to  sip  the  waters  of 
the  Pierian  Spring. 

"  And  certainly,  beauty  is  not  at  a  discount 
among  the  professional  classes.  Look  at  an 
actress.  Her  work  is  exacting  and  nerve-wear- 
ing to  a  degree.  She  even  has  to  forego 
that  cherished  fetich  of  women — her  beauty 
sleep." 

"  Whom  do  you  include  in  the  professional 
classes  ?  "  asked  the  Judge. 

"  Oh,  actresses,  musicians,  artists,  writers, 
doctors  and  lawyers,  and  those  women  who 
are  commonly  called  *  social  leaders.'  Their 
duties,  by  the  way,  are  manifold  and  exact- 
ing and  require  very  much  the  same  quali- 
ties that  make  men  and  women  eminent  in 
any  field;  and  you  know,  that  among  them 
could  be  cited  many  extremely  beautiful 
women." 

"  Here  is  an  interesting  question,"  said 
the  Judge.  "  In  a  mixed  gathering  of  women 
of  leisure  and  those  representing  the  various 
professions,  could  the  ladies  of  leisure  be 
distinguished  from  the  toilers?"  He  was 
[154] 


WORK  VS.  BEAUTY 

looking  at  Castilia  when  he  spoke.  He  usu- 
ally was  looking  at  Castilia. 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  never  took  the  trouble  to 
notice,"  shaking  her  head.  "  Ask  Egeria." 

"  It  would  be  impossible  to  distinguish 
those  of  either  class,  save  in  one  way,"  re- 
marked Egeria  thoughtfully.  "  There  is  un- 
doubtedly a  subtle  something  in  the  expres- 
sion of  the  woman  who  works  which  is  lacking 
in  the  face  of  her  sister  who  does  not.  It  is 
that  look  of  thought  and  purpose  which  ef- 
fort and  aspiration  bestows,  an  expression  of 
life's  deeper  experiences,  of  a  breadth  of  view 
which  comes  from  keeping  in  touch  with  the 
'  widening  thoughts  of  men.'  This  may  add 
nothing  to  the  beauty  of  youth,  so  lovely 
and  evanescent  in  itself;  but  it  does  add 
vastly  to  middle  life.  It  gives  that  touch  of 
interest,  of  imagination  which  captivates  the 
attention  and  arouses  the  curiosity." 

"  Why  is  it,"  asked  the  Poet,  "  that  the 
women  who  write  are  so  much  plainer  in  ap- 
pearance, I  will  not  be  brutal  and  say  uglier, 
than  the  women  of  other  professions?  " 

Egeria    laughed.    "  But,    seriously,"    she 
[155] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

said,  "  I  never  thought  of  that  before.  I  sup- 
pose " — slowly — "  it  is  due  to  the  fact  that 
their  personality  is  distinct  from  their  work. 
In  any  of  the  other  professions  we  have  men- 
tioned, a  woman's  success  depends  primarily 
upon  her  abilities,  but  not  exclusively.  The 
impression  she  makes  is  of  incalculable  value. 
Appearance,  dress,  manners — all  those  fac- 
tors are  of  distinct  value  to  her,  and  prob- 
ably count  more  for  success  than  the  solid 
fact  of  fitness  for  her  work  which  an  unthink- 
ing public  does  not  always  pause  to  consider. 
"  But  the  work  of  the  writing  woman  is  a 
factor  quite  apart  from  herself.  It  must 
stand  or  fall  on  its  merits  which,  it  is  need- 
less to  say,  are  quite  independent  of  her  per- 
sonal gifts  and  graces.  She  might  be  as  fair 
as  Helen,  as  witty  as  De  Stael,  as  convincing 
as  Madame  Roland,  it  would  profit  her  noth- 
ing. Unless  her  work  could  stand  the  editorial 
test,  her  desk  would  be  piled  high  with  re- 
turned manuscripts  accompanied  by  a  few 
courteous  words.  Therefore,  since  neither 
beauty,  grace  nor  charm  count  in  her  race 
for  the  golden  apples,  she  has  probably  taken 
[156] 


WORK  VS.  BEAUTY 

no  pains  to  secure  their  possession  or  per- 
manence." 

"  The  theory  is  at  least  plausible,"  ad- 
mitted the  Judge. 

"  Still,"  began  the  Poet  combatively,  but 
he  was  interrupted  by  the  Bishop,  who  had 
been  furtively  glancing  at  his  watch 

"  Bless  my  soul ! "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  had 
no  idea  it  was  so  late.  The  afternoon  is  more 
than  half  gone.  Come,  Castilia,  we  must  go." 

"  Poet !  Poet !  "  mocked  Egeria  as  she  rose 
from  her  chair.  "  I  won  in  fair  fight.  You 
hadn't  the  ghost  of  an  argument." 

He  laughed.  ."  I  was  outtalked,  I  grant 
you,  Madame  Egeria;  but  I  am  not  con- 
vinced." 


[157] 


A   GAME   OF   BRIDGE 


Mute  as  the  figure  in  a  dream, 
Her  cards  she  ponders  o'er ; 

The  rubies  in  her  lorgnon  gleam 
As  she  surveys  the  score  ; 

Her  satins,  rose  and  gold  and  cream, 
Trail  on  the  polished  floor. 


CHAPTER    EIGHT 
A  GAME  OF  BRIDGE 

EIGHT  of  us!  Just  enough  for  two 
tables  of  bridge,"  said  Egeria  glanc- 
ing smilingly  over  the  group  about  the  hall 
fire  with  that  gleam  in  her  eye  which  pro- 
claimed her  of  the  true  Sarah  Battle  breed, 
one  of  the  elect  and  select  sisterhood  who, 
next  to  their  devotions,  love  a  good  game 
of  whist. 

The  Judge,  the  Commonplace  Man,  the 
Bishop,  and  Castilia,  the  Editor  of  a  Wom- 
an's Magazine  and  the  Poet  had  all  been 
dining  with  her,  and  now  sat  drinking  their 
coffee  and  rehearsing  "  the  sweet  old  farce 
of  mutual  admiration  over  a  pipe." 

It  was  a  cold,  autumn  evening  with  a 
piercing  East  wind  which  sedulously  drove 
the  white  mists  in  from  the  sea,  and  inter- 
mittently shrieked  and  wailed  about  the 
[161] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

house.  As  it  rose  to  a  prolonged  howl,  the 
great  Persian  cat  which  lay  in  Egeria's  lap 
opened  wide  her  eyes  and  stared  "  with  sea- 
green  gaze  inscrutable "  at  the  glowing 
logs  on  the  broad  hearth. 

The  leaping  flame  illuminated  the  group 
and  threw  a  thousand  warm  and  broken  re- 
flections over  Egeria's  cream-colored  satins 
with  time-yellowed  laces  falling  from  her 
arms  and  shoulders,  and  caused  the  topazes 
at  her  throat  and  on  her  fingers  to  glow  with 
a  brilliant  if  evanescent  fire.  It  lent,  too,  the 
delicate  animation  of  color  to  the  pale, 
ethereal  blue  of  Castilia's  gown  and  the 
cluster  of  deep  purple  violets  on  her 
breast. 

"  Dear  me !  What  a  delightful  evening 
we  are  going  to  have ! "  Egeria  listened  lux- 
uriously to  the  shriek  of  the  wind.  During 
Spring  and  Summer,  she  resolutely  abjured 
cards ;  but  when  the  fire  was  once  lighted 
on  her  hearthstone,  she  turned  to  them  with 
renewed  zest,  her  appetite  whetted  by  ab- 
stinence. Her  love  for  the  more  intellectual 
games  was  but  another  bond  of  sympathy 
[162] 


A  GAME  OF  BRIDGE 

between  herself  and  her  friends  of  the  soul, 
as  they  were,  to  a  man,  brilliant  and  enthu- 
siastic bridge  players. 

"  Egeria,  why  are  you  so  fond  of 
bridge?  "  asked  Castilia  curiously. 

"  Why  am  I  so  fond  of  life?  "  Egeria  re- 
turned the  question  with  a  question.  "  The 
games  are  much  alike  and  excite  the  same 
zest  in  the  player.  Look ! "  She  picked  up 
a  deck  of  cards  from  a  little  patience  table 
at  her  elbow  and  dealt  them  rapidly  about 
so  that  they  fell  face  upward  at  the  feet 
of  the  different  members  of  the  coterie. 
"  Who  can  tell  why  to  the  Judge  have 
fallen  hearts ;  to  the  Co.mmonplace  Man 
clubs,  to  the  Financier,  diamonds?  But  this 
we  do  know,  that  much  depends  upon  the 
alertness  and  the  skill  of  the  player,  his 
ability  to  comprehend  the  fundamental  rules 
of  the  game.  Give  me  a  poor  hand,  Castilia, 
and  I  will  engage  to  take  the  tricks  from 
a  careless  and  inattentive  player  who  has 
all  the  advantage  of  better  cards.  Ah, 
*  life  is  a  game,'  "  she  quoted  softly  and 
archly : 

[163] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

" '  Life  is  a  game  in  which  from  unseen  sources, 
The  cards  are  shuffled  and  the  hearts  are  dealt. 
Vain  are  all  efforts  to  control  those  forces 
Which,  though  unseen,  are  no  less  strongly  felt. 

" '  I  do  not  like  the  way  the  cards  are  shuffled, 
But  still,  I  like  the  game  and  want  to  play ; 
So,  through  the  long,  long  night  will  I  unruffled, 
Play  what  I  get  until  the  dawn  of  day.' 

"  And  be  sure,  Castilia,  that  each  man 
will  play  the  game  of  life  and  of  bridge  ac- 
cording to  his  natural  disposition. 

"  The  Judge  plays  with  the  logic,  the 
dispassionate  analysis,  the  calculation  of 
cause  and  effect  which  has  enabled  him  to 
wear  the  judicial  ermine;  the  Commonplace 
Man  plays  with  a  complete  intuitive  under- 
standing of  the  game,  and  an  overcaution 
which  has  more  than  once  lost  him  an  almost 
won  field."  There  was  something  approach- 
ing humorous  resentment  in  the  glance  she 
threw  him.  "  The  Bishop  plays  with  the 
lofty  enthusiasm,  the  benign  largeness  of 
vision,  the  tact  and  earnestness  which  have 
made  him  a  Prince  of  the  Church.  The  Fi- 
nancier shows  concentration,  the  ability  to 
[164] 


A  GAME  OF  BRIDGE 

calculate  plays  far  ahead,  the  strategic 
movements  which  have  piled  up  his  millions ; 
the  Editor  exhibits  the  intellectual  grasp, 
the  originality  and  selective  quality  which 
have  made  him  eminent  in  his  calling;  and 
the  Poet  is  an  erratic,  moody  player — a 
wretched  game  to-day,  an  almost  inspired 
one  to-morrow." 

"  And  Egeria?  "  said  Castilia,  "  How  does 
she  play?  " 

"  Like  a  diplomat.  She  is  always  smooth," 
said  the  Editor. 

"  Like  a  General,"  smiled  the  Bishop, 
"  even  if  she  is  sometimes  a  bit  daring  and 
impetuous." 

"  The  one  woman  who  can  rank  with  the 
best  men  players,"  affirmed  the  Judge. 

Egeria  bowed  low,  her  hand  upon  her 
heart.  "  My  courtiers !  My  counsellors !  My 
comrades  and  my  tutors !  I  can  never  ex- 
press how  much  of  my  knowledge  of  life 
and  of  bridge  I  owe  to  you." 

The  Editor  did  not  hear  her.  He  was  pon- 
dering   on    the    Judge's    words.    "  The    one 
woman    who    can    rank   with   the    best    men 
[165] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

players,"  he  repeated.  "  That  might  make 
an  article.  Judge,  since  Madame  Egeria 
does  not  resent  the  fact  that  you  differen- 
tiate thus  between  men  and  women,  it  must 
be  that  you  are  all  agreed  that  women  do 
not  rank  with  men  in  the  kingdom  of  cards." 

"  They  do  not,"  affirmed  the  Judge  de- 
cisively. "  There  are,  of  course,  many  women 
who  play  a  thousand  times  better  than  the 
average  man;  but,  nevertheless,  they  are 
outclassed  by  the  star  players  among  men." 

"  Egeria,  don't  let  them  begin  to  talk 
that  way,"  begged  Castilia;  but  the  lady 
to  whom  she  appealed  only  shrugged  her 
shoulders  and  smiled. 

The  Editor  pursued  the  subject.  "  To 
what  do  you  attribute  the  fact  that  women 
in  the  main  seem  to  lack  what  is  technically 
known  as  *  card  sense.' ' 

The  Judge  considered  a  moment.  "  They 
are  not  so  logical  as  men.  They  do  not 
analyze  as  carefully  and  keenly;  and  in  very 
few  cases  do  they  play  for  the  intellectual 
stimulus  and  interest  of  the  game.  They 
play  to  win ;  it  is  the  hazard  which  fas- 
[166] 


A  GAME  OF  BRIDGE 

cinates  them  and  they  are  very  rarely 
scrupulous  about  the  methods  by  which  they 
achieve  their  ends.  In  those  celebrated  car- 
icatures of  the  eighteenth  century — *  The 
Daughters  of  Faro '  —  Gillray  accurately 
pictured  the  eternal  type  of  the  feminine 
card  player.  The  lady  of  fashion,  with  her 
tower  of  powdered  hair  and  her  brocades, 
would  sit  all  night  at  ombre  and,  if  she  were 
a  loser,  would  rise  from  her  chair,  with  a 
storm  of  oaths,  cast  her  cards  in  her  oppo- 
nent's face,  call  for  her  link  boy  and  sedan 
chair,  and  home  as  the  gray  dawn  broke 
over  the  London  streets." 

"  Egeria,  Egeria,  why  do  you  let  them 
talk  so  ? "  pleaded  Castilia,  throwing  a 
glance  of  pouting  reproof  at  the  Judge. 

"  Why  not,  if  it  amuses  them  ?  And  what 
they  say  about  women  not  playing  as  well 
as  men  is  true  enough;  but  they  do  not, 
however,  take  into  account  the  reason  for  it. 
Look  at  the  difference  in  training.  Since 
boyhood,  men  have  played  euchre,  seven-up, 
poker,  etc.  Women,  on  the  contrary,  know 
but  two  games,  bridge  and  whist." 
[167] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

"  But  that  does  not  explain  why  women 
take  so  keenly  to  cards,"  insisted  the  Editor. 

"  '  Men  some  to  business,  some  to  pleasure  take, 
But  every  woman  is  at  heart  a  rake.'  " 

jested  Egeria.  "  So  bridge  offers  them  an 
opportunity  to  indulge  in  their  passion  for 
speculation.  You  see  they  have  a  natural 
love  for  '  the  sprightly  infusion  of  chance, 
the  handsome  excuses  of  good  fortune.'  The 
woman  card  enthusiast,  however,  is  sui  gen- 
eris and  unmistakable.  I  can  tell  a  trophy 
winner  the  minute  I  see  her.  There  is  always 
something  martial  in  her  bearing,  an  un- 
concealed *  pride  in  her  port,  defiance  in  her 
eye.'  She  seems  to  say :  *  We  are  the  real 
aristocracy  of  the  intellectual  women.  Upon 
you  culture-seekers,  lecture-haunters,  quaff- 
ers  of  the  Pierian  spring  limited,  there  has 
always  rested  the  stigma  of  pedant  and  bas 
bleu;  but  we  have  maintained  a  prestige  as 
ancient  as  it  is  honorable.'  They  scorn  the 
average  bridge-playing  woman,  and  indeed 
they  have  cause,  for  their  ranks  are  re- 
cruited from  the  great  standing  army  of 
[168] 


A  GAME  OF  BRIDGE 

the  idlers  and  faddists,  who  take  feverishly 
to  embroidery,  or  to  '  religion  and  little 
dogs,'  or  to  bridge,  whatever  is  of  the  mode 
— for  the  moment." 

"  Are  there  distinct  types  of  the  bridge- 
playing  woman  ?  "  The  Editor  was  still  bent 
on  acquiring  knowledge. 

"  Their  name  is  legion,"  returned  Egeria 
solemnly.  "  There  is  your  partner,  who,  dur- 
ing the  game,  is  casting  furtive  glances 
about  the  table  to  see  if  the  other  women's 
rings  are  as  handsome  as  hers;  there  is  the 
woman  who  is  inordinately  glib  with  terms 
and  has  all  the  new  rules  and  expressions 
at  her  tongue's  end — who  would  cheerfully 
undertake  to  instruct  even  an  authority  on 
bridge  like  the  Judge  here,  and  who  plays 
with  savoir  faire  an  inconceivably  bad 
game.  Then  the  woman  who  is  in  a  nervous 
fidget  from  the  moment  she  begins  to  play 
and  has  murder  in  her  eyes  and  soul  if  she 
loses ;  and  the  soft  babyish  creature,  who, 
when  the  score  warns  you  that  England 
expects  every  man  to  do  his  duty,  will  make 
some  outrageous  blunder,  and  then  cry, 
[169] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

'  Oh,  that  was  awful !  Please  forgive  me.  My 
husband  has  a  bad  cold  and  the  baby  is  ill, 
and  I  can't  get  my  mind  on  the  cards ! '  But 
how  we  are  wasting  time.  Come  to  the  tables. 
I  have  had  them  set  in  my  sitting  room," 
indicating  a  small  apartment  off  the  hall. 

"  I  think,"  said  the  Bishop,  who  had  been 
exchanging  a  word  or  two  with  the  Poet 
and  the  Financier,  "  that  I  will  not  play 
to-night.  I  find  that  there  are  others  of  the 
same  mind,  so  I  will  remain  here  by  the  fire 
where  I  can  choose  even  better  company 
than  you  can  offer  me,  Madame  Egeria. 

'  Montaigne  with  his  sheepskin  blistered, 
And  Howell  the  worse  for  wear ; 
And  the  worm-drilled  Jesuit's  Horace, 
And  the  little  old  cropped  Moliere.'  " 

"  I,  too,  would  rather  not  play,"  said  the 
Poet  hastily,  "  and  Castilia,  since  you  care 
nothing  about  bridge,  perhaps  you  will  stay 
here  with  your  father  and  myself  and  run 
over  that  thing  of  Grieg's  again." 

"  /  care  nothing  about  bridge !  "  exclaimed 
Castilia  indignantly.  "  You  are  quite  mis- 
[170] 


A   GAME  OF  BRIDGE 

taken.  I  am  perfectly  wild  about  it  and 
really  learning  very  fast.  Am  I  not?  "  She 
appealed  to  the  Judge,  fluttering  her  dark 
lashes  and  smiling  alluringly. 

"  Indeed  you  are,"  he  approved. 

Egeria  could  not  repress  a  faint  smile; 
and  lifting  her  eyes,  she  encountered  those 
of  the  Editor  fixed  satirically  upon  her. 

"  Bless  me ! "  cried  the  Bishop,  rubbing 
his  hand  over  his  white  hair,  "  when  did  you 
begin  to  take  an  interest  in  cards,  Castilia? 
I  never  " — to  the  group  at  large — "  could 
either  coax  or  drive  her  into  even  playing  a 
game  of  cribbage  with  me.  Surely  this  is 
not  Castilia." 

"  No,"  said  the  Poet  bitterly,  under  his 
breath,  "  this  is  not  Castilia.  It  is  a  change- 
ling." 

"  Come,  come,"  Egeria  broke  the  slight 
embarrassed  pause,  "  we  will  leave  the  hall 
free  here  to  any  one  who  wants  to  smoke,  or 
read,  or  play  the  piano.  Let  me  see;  there 
are  six  of  us.  We  will  have  to  cut  for  the 
first  rubber." 

"  Count  me  out,"  said  the  Financier,  "  I 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

think  I  shall  stay  here  and  play  with  the 
cat ;  and  if  he  will  let  me,  talk  to  the  Bishop 
*  unreservedly  and  cheerfully  and  abundantly 
upon  anything  or  nothing.' ' 

"  And  I  would  rather  look  on  than  play 
this  evening,"  announced  the  Editor. 

"  Just  as  you  please,"  said  Egeria,  lead- 
ing the  way  to  her  sitting  room. 

It  was  all  pink  and  white,  dull  rose  with 
the  frosted  filagree  of  silver.  The  rose- 
shaded  lamps  cast  twinkling  reflections  on 
the  polished  floor,  the  tables,  and  on  Cas- 
tilia's  blue  and  violets  and  Egeria's  creams 
and  gold.  The  black  of  the  men's  evening 
dress  added  the  necessary  depth  to  a  scene 
otherwise  too  buoyantly  light  and  unsub- 
stantial. 

"'Painted  by  Carlo  Van  Loo,'"  mur- 
mured the  Financier  from  the  doorway. 
"  *  Loves  in  a  riot  of  light,  roses,  and  va- 
porous blue.' ' 

"  Ah,"    replied    Egeria,    "  every    action 

should    have    its    fitting    environment.    We 

should    move    from    picture    to    picture.    A 

trysting,    for    instance,    demands    its    lych- 

[172] 


A  GAME  OF  BRIDGE 

gate  with  lions  ramping  on  stone  or  a  rose- 
wreathed  pergola  and  moonlight.  Did  you 
ever  notice  that  in  fiction  all  last  farewells 
occur  in  the  pouring  rain,  the  heavens  ap- 
propriately weeping?  So,  bridge  demands 
a  shrieking  north  wind  without,  warmth  and 
peace,  even  soft  luxury  within.  Why  Lamb 
put  the  whole  of  whist  in  one  immortal 
phrase  '  a  clear  fire,  a  clean  hearth,  and  the 
rigor  of  the  game.' ' 

"  Yes,"  murmured  the  Poet.  He  had  fol- 
lowed them  in,  "  and  do  you  not  recall 

'  My  little  love,  do  you  remember, 
Ere  we  were  grown  so  sadly  wise, 
Those  evenings  in  the  bleak  December, 
Curtained  warm  from  the  snowy  weather, 
When  you  and  I  played  chess  together, 
Checkmated  by  each  other's  eyes.'  " 

His  gaze  was  fixed  on  Castilia,  but  she, 
with  downcast  lashes,  was  busily  fingering 
the  cards. 

The  draw  for  partners  showed  that  Cas- 
tilia and  the  Judge  were  to  play  against 
Egeria  and  the  Commonplace  Man.  Just 
[173] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

before  they  sat  down  the  latter  took  occa- 
sion to  whisper  earnestly  to  his  partner, 
"  Persuade  Castilia  to  let  the  Editor  take 
her  place.  The  whole  evening  is  spoiled  if 
she  persists  in  playing." 

Mindful  of  this  advice,  Egeria  drew  Cas- 
tilia hastily  aside.  "  Don't  you  think,  dear," 
she  asked,  "  you  had  better  let  the  Editor 
play  in  your  stead?  You  are  just  beginning, 
you  know,  and  we  are  all  so  keen  on  our 
game.  The  Judge," — with  meaning — "  is  a 
perfect  martinet." 

"  But  I  have  been  playing  beautifully," 
averred  Castilia  with  confidence,  "  and  if  I 
do  not  play,  the  Poet  will  get  me  in  a  cor- 
ner and  rant  and  rave  in  poetry,  and  when 
his  voice  gives  out,  he  will  storm  at  me  on 
the  piano.  I  would  rather  a  man  would  throw 
things  at  me  than  call  me  names  in  music 
and  in  Elizabethan  verse.  No — I  want  to 
play  bridge." 

Egeria  sighed  at  the  intrepidity  of  youth 

and,  taking  her  seat,  dealt  the  cards.  The 

Editor  drew  his  chair  close  beside  her  to 

watch  the  game,  the  Financier  returned  to 

[174] 


A  GAME  OF  BRIDGE 

the  fire  and  the  Bishop,  and  the  Poet,  seat- 
ing himself  at  the  piano,  began  to  play  as 
passionately  and  as  stormily  as  Castilia  had 
predicted. 

As  if  to  make  good  her  vainglorious 
boastings,  Castilia  concentrated  her  mind 
on  her  cards  and  succeeded  in  getting 
through  the  first  game  quite  admirably  to 
Egeria's  intense  relief.  Only  once  did  a 
frown  show  upon  the  Judge's  brow,  and 
that  was  when  Castilia  doubled  hearts  with 
an  extremely  inadequate  hand;  but  as  she 
and  the  Judge  won  the  game,  he  forebore 
mention  of  her  indiscretion. 

True,  while  the  cards  were  being  dealt, 
he  took  occasion  to  caution  the  young  wom- 
an against  certain  errors ;  but  a  moment 
later,  conversation  died  and  they  were  all 
intent  on  the  game.  The  Poet  had  ceased 
to  storm  and  scold  in  warring  chords  and 
was  playing  now  to  his  heart's  love,  the  Cas- 
tilia of  his  dreams,  an  ideal  maiden  whom 
he  had  never  known ;  exquisite,  tender  har- 
monies flowed  from  his  fingers  and  Castilia, 
who  loved  music,  found  her  ear  caught  and 
[175] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

her  attention  irresistibly  drawn  away  from 
the  gleaming  pasteboards  in  her  hand. 

Still  all  went  fairly  well  until  the  fifth 
round,  when  the  Judge,  at  the  left  of  Ege- 
ria,  who  had  dealt,  led  a  low  spade — the 
dummy  followed  suit,  and  Castilia  laid  down 
the  eight  of  clubs.  Egeria  cast  one  quick 
glance  at  the  dummy,  at  her  own  hand,  and 
her  heart  sank. 

The  Editor's  foot  touched  hers  lightly 
but  significantly  under  the  table.  She  threw 
one  despairing  look  at  the  Commonplace 
Man. 

"  Partner,"  there  was  something  terrible 
in  the  icy  suavity  of  the  Judge's  tones, 
"  have  you  no  spades  ?  " 

"Oh,"  gasped  Castilia.  "Oh,  yes,"  gaz- 
ing conscience-stricken  into  her  hand,  "  I 
have  three."  She  sought  to  replace  her  eight 
of  clubs  with  one  of  them. 

"You  will  have  to  leave  that  card  upon 
the  table,"  he  said  coldly,  tapping  the  pol- 
ished wood  sharply  with  his  finger.  "  Why 
did  you  revoke,  Castilia?  " 

Castilia  drooped  like  a  flower,  then  lifted 
[176] 


A  GAME  OF  BRIDGE 

her  lovely  eyes  to  his  and  sighed.  The  vio- 
lets trembled  on  her  breast,  "  I'm  so  sorry," 
she  cajoled.  "  Indeed  I  will  not  do  it  again." 

"  It  is  not  a  particularly  bad  blunder," — 
the  Judge  cast  a  quick  defiant  glance  at 
Egeria  and  the  Commonplace  Man — "  a — a 
— mistake  that  is — a — very  frequently  made 
by  the  best  players." 

The  Editor's  foot  was  temptingly  near 
her  own,  and  Egeria  gave  it  one  swift,  small, 
triumphant  shove. 

The  final  game  of  the  rubber  began  pro- 
pitiously. Castilia  made  every  effort  to  re- 
deem herself;  and  for  a  time  played  blame- 
lessly, but  the  Poet  had,  after  a  brief  silence, 
struck  the  keys  again ;  and  the  music  sobbed 
and  sighed  through  the  rooms  imperatively, 
poignantly  sweet.  It  was  his  last  plea,  and 
he  threw  into  it,  all  his  love,  all  his  poetry, 
all  the  elusive,  intangible  visions  of  his  ar- 
tist's soul,  and  Castilia  listened. 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  cards,  but 

though  the  pigeon  -  blood  rubies  of  hearts 

and  diamonds  gleamed,  the  black  spades  and 

clubs  glistened,  though  her  cards  numbered 

[177] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

kings  "  in  majesty  revered  with  hoary  whis- 
kers and  a  forky  beard,"  and  "  queens  whose 
hands  sustained  a  flower,  the  expressive  em- 
blem of  their  softer  power,"  she  saw  them 
not.  Ah,  the  Poet  had  loved  her  long  and 
well.  She  had  never  cared  for  him;  but — 
she  started  suddenly,  roused  from  her  rev- 
erie by  the  intense,  waiting  silence,  and 
looked  up  to  find  three  pairs  of  indignant, 
surprised,  expectant  eyes  fixed  upon  her. 

"  Castilia,"  there  was  a  world  of  reproof 
in  the  Judge's  tone,  "  we  are  waiting  on 
you." 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  cried  contritely,  "  I 
— I —  Oh,"  peering  nervously  at  her  hand, 
"  What  are  trumps?  " 

There  was  a  thrill  of  horror  about  the 
table.  Egeria,  who  was  feeling  the  strain 
of  the  evening,  shuddered  visibly. 

"  Lost,  by  Jove ! "  whispered  the  Editor 
in  her  ear. 

No  one  expected  the  Judge  to  reply,  and 

after    a    moment's     shocked     silence,     they 

looked  furtively  and  apprehensively  at  him. 

But  they,  the  game,  the  game  on  which  he 

[  178  ] 


A  GAME  OF  BRIDGE 

was  an  authority,  were  all  forgotten,  and 
had  faded  to  some  dim  and  commonplace 
limbo.  He  and  Castilia  sat  gazing  into  each 
other's  eyes,  and  it  was  not  until  she 
dropped  hers,  the  flush  deepening  on  her 
cheek,  the  violets  rising  and  falling  with  her 
hurried  breathing,  that  he  with  some  strug- 
gling sense  of  his  surroundings  murmured 
in  a  tone  meant  to  be  casual  and  matter-of- 
fact,  "  Hearts." 

"  Diamonds,"  corrected  the  Commonplace 
Man  with  cold  incisiveness. 

The  remaining  three  rounds  were  played 
in  stricken  silence,  Egeria  and  the  Common- 
place Man  winning  the  game  and  the  rub- 
ber, then  the  lady  of  the  manor  rose  and 
resolutely  pushed  back  her  chair.  "  We  are 
none  of  us  in  the  proper  bridge  mood  to- 
night," she  said  lightly  but  with  finality; 
"  we  will  join  the  others  in  the  library  and 
tell  fortunes,  or  *  sad  stories  of  the  death 
of  kings.'  " 

"  You  played  a  hazardous  game,"  said  the 
Editor   with   grudging   admiration,   as   she 
and  he  were  left  alone  by  the  table,  "  but 
[179] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

I  suppose,  as  usual,  you  knew  what  you  were 
about." 

"  I've  endured  enough  this  evening,"  she 
replied,  "  but  without  attempting  to  justify 
myself,  let  me  point  out  that  only  an  ab- 
sorbing devotion  could  have  prevented  the 
Judge  from  annihilating  her  on  the  spot, 
and  that  Castilia  who  loathes  cards  is  striv- 
ing to  learn  bridge  to  please  him.  I  chal- 
lenge you  to  show  me  a  greater  proof  of 
mutual  affection." 

"  Hm-m,"  returned  the  Editor,  "  I  see 
no  reason  yet  to  change  my  opinion.  The 
Judge  is  rich,  the  Poet  is  poor." 

Egeria  threw  the  cards  she  was  lightly 
shuffling  between  her  topaz-encircled  fin- 
gers on  the  table.  He  had  never  seen  her 
angry  before. 

"  Bon  Dieu! "  she  cried  in  desperation. 
"  Because  Castilia  has  enough  sense  of 
arithmetic  to  wish  to  marry  a  man  with  a 
'  tolerable  understanding  and  a  thousand  a 
year,'  is  my  life  to  be  made  miserable? 
Allez-vous  en,  Editor.  Vous  m'ennuyez" 

[180] 


IS  LOVE   ENOUGH? 


'If  you  go  over  desert  and  mountain, 
Far  into  the  country  of  Sorrow, 
To-day  and  to-night  and  to-morrow, 
And  maybe  for  months  and  for  years; 
You  shall  come  with  a  heart  that  is  bursting 
For  trouble  and  toiling  and  thirsting, 
You  shall  certainly  come  to  the  fountain 
At  length, — to  the  Fountain  of  Tears." 

ARTHUR  O'SHAUGHNESSY. 


CHAPTER    NINE 
IS  LOVE  ENOUGH? 

CASTILIA  had  been  spending  the  morn- 
ing with  Egeria  and  now  as  the  day 
wore  on  to  afternoon,  they  sat  together  in 
the  drawing-room,  spacious  and  beautiful 
and  almost  empty.  Egeria  loved  long,  un- 
broken lines,  sweeping  and  harmonious  ef- 
fects. There  were  no  ornaments  nor  trifles 
to  fret  the  eye;  but  a  scheme  of  decoration 
where  deep,  rich  browns  melted  into  russets 
and,  through  imperceptible  shades,  amber 
paled  to  gold,  until  the  whole  room  reflected 
the  mellow  glow  of  shaded  sunlight,  and  re- 
stored and  refreshed  the  spirit  with  the  at- 
mosphere of  peace  and  order  and  beauty. 

Castilia,  who  had  been  more  or  less  dis- 
trait  all  morning,   had  gradually,   and  she 
fancied,  adroitly  drawn  the  subject  around 
to  the  Financier;  and  after  both  women  had 
[183] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

vied  in  saying  pleasant  and  admiring  things 
about  him,  the  younger  one  glanced  at  her 
friend  rather  doubtfully,  opened  her  mouth 
once  or  twice  as  if  about  to  speak,  closed  it, 
and  then  taking  her  courage  in  both  hands, 
said  abruptly : 

"  Do  you  not  think  you  are  leading  him  on 
rather — well  rather  ostentatiously,  Egeria  ?  " 

"  Who  ?  "  asked  her  hostess  provokingly. 

"  We  were  just  speaking  of  him,"  impa- 
tiently. "  The  Financier,  of  course.  And 
everyone  says  that  you  are  leading  him  on." 

"  Where  ?  "  asked  Egeria  meekly,  still  all 
placid  innocence. 

"  Well,  down  the  wrong  road — to  put  it 
plainly." 

"  Ah,  Castilia,  Castilia !  How  young  you 
are !  Who  shall  ever  decide  which  is  the  right 
road  until  we  reach  the  journey's  end.  But " 
— becoming  practical  and  yielding  gracefully 
— "  you  may  be  right.  You  know,"  with 
laughter  in  her  voice,  "  how  prone  I  am 
to  heed  what  *  everyone '  says.  No  doubt 
though,"  becoming  serious,  "  I  have  made  my 
interest  in  him  and  admiration  for  him 
[  184  ] 


IS  LOVE  ENOUGH? 

rather  evident.  Tell  me,"  with  a  quick  glance, 
and  lowering  her  voice  confidentially,  "  have 
either  the  Judge  or  the  Poet  spoken  of  it  to 
you?  " 

"  The  Judge  or  the  Poet,"  repeated  Cas- 
tilia  dazedly,  with  widely  opened  eyes.  "  No, 
why  on  earth  should  they?  " 

Egeria  leaned  back  in  her  chair  with  a  re- 
lieved though  conscious  smile.  "  Oh,  no  rea- 
son, of  course!  Only  I  fancied  they  might 
feel  themselves  rather  neglected." 

Castilia  bit  her  lip  and  stared  blankly  at 
her  friend  in  this  new  role  of  the  sentimen- 
talist. "  I  never  considered  either  of  them 
such  particular  friends  of  yours."  Her  voice 
was  chill  and  crisp. 

"  Didn't  you,  dear  ?  Why,  where  are  your 
eyes.  I  hope,  and  think  I  do  not  deceive  my- 
self in  hoping,  that  they  regard  themselves 
as  among  my  best  friends.  The  Poet,  I  have 
always  found  charming;  our  tastes  are  so 
congenial,  and  he  is  good  enough  to  insist 
that  I  have  been  a  help  to  him  in  his  work. 
Do  you  not  find  that  he  relies  on  your  criti- 
cisms ?  " 

[185] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

"  I  never  criticise  his  work.  It  would 
seem  very  presumptuous  for  me  to  do  so," 
stiffly. 

"  Oh,  he  needs  it,  helpful,  stimulating  crit- 
icism !  He  constantly  tells  me  so.  He  is  com- 
ing this  afternoon.  I  have  been  looking  at  the 
proofs  of  his  new  poems,  so  soon  to  be  pub- 
lished, and  I  am  going  over  them  with  him 
very  carefully.  Going !  and  so  soon,  dear  ?  " 
in  surprise.  "  I  had  hoped  you  were  to  be 
with  me  all  day.  You  were  speaking  of  the 
Judge," — handing  Castilia  her  muff.  "  What 
a  help  he  has  been  to  me  in  my  business  af- 
fairs !  I  could  not  get  along  without  him. 
Daily,  I  find  myself  relying  more  and  more 
upon  his  advice  and  counsel." 

Castilia  drew  her  furs  up  around  her 
shoulders  with  a  jerk,  a  flush  rising  on  her 
lovely,  dusky,  olive  cheek. 

"  The  Judge — "  she  began  quickly. 

"  Now  do  not  say  anything  uncivil  or  un- 
kind." Egeria  raised  a  protesting  hand.  "  I 
will  not  have  it.  You  two  are  always  quarrel- 
ing. The  truth  is,  you  are  too  young  to  ap- 
preciate him." 

[186] 


IS  LOVE  ENOUGH? 

The  sparkle  in  Castilia's  eye  was  a  danger 
signal.  "  Good-by,"  she  brushed  her  cheek 
hastily  against  Egeria's.  Then  drawing  back 
and  gazing  critically  at  the  latter's  gown, 
"  Forgive  me  for  speaking  of  it ;  but  do  you 
not  think  that  rose  color  is  very  trying?  You 
look  frightfully  pale." 

"  Perhaps,"  smiled  Egeria.  "  But  I  put  it 
on  for  the  Poet.  He  adores  rose  color,  you 
know.  He  says  it  is  *  an  inspiration.' ' 

Castilia  closed  the  door  firmly  behind  her. 

"  Could  it  be  said,"  laughed  Egeria,  left 
alone,  "  that  Castilia  flounced  from  the  room? 
Ah,  I  met  the  reward  of  the  missionary  to- 
day; but  nevertheless,  I  have  done  a  good 
deed." 

Half  an  hour  later  when  the  Poet  arrived, 
he  glanced  quickly  about  him,  and  then  his 
face  fell. 

"  I  rather  fancied  Castilia  was  to  be  here," 
he  said  aggrievedly.  "  She  said  she  would." 

"  She  left  quite  suddenly,"  replied  Egeria, 
"  because  there  was  something  in  her  ear." 

"  Something  in  her  ear?  "  his  voice  was 
concerned. 

[187] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

"  Yes,  a  flea." 

"  A  flea !  "  in  horror. 

Egeria  nodded  unmoved.  "  I  put  it  there. 
Have  you  never  heard  that  vulgar  old  phrase, 
'  a  flea  in  your  ear  '  ?  " 

"  Ah-h !  "  resuming  his  seat  and  gazing  at 
her  with  reproachful  eyes.  "  You  have  been 
scolding  Castilia !  How  could  you  ?  She  is  too 
beautiful.  You  would  not  go  out  into  your 
garden  and  scold  a  flower.  And  Castilia  is  a 
flower,  a  velvety,  crimson  rose,  one  of  June's 
crimson  roses,  flowers  of  the  sun,  full  of 
*  splendid  summer  and  perfume  and  pride.' 
Ah,  Madame  Egeria,  to  know  anything  so 
sweet  is  to  love  her ;  and  after  all,  what  more 
could  one  ask  of  life  ?  " 

"  Is  that  all  you  ask,  Poet?  "  questioned 
Egeria,  rather  sadly.  "  Just  to  love  Cas- 
tilia?" 

"  Isn't  it  enough  ?  "  he  asked  lifting  his 
head,  a  sudden  radiance  on  his  face.  "  '  Love 
is  enough,  though  the  world  be  waning,' ': 
touching  caressingly  with  his  finger  tips  the 
gold  and  flame  petals  of  the  great,  ragged 
chrysanthemums  in  a  vase  by  his  side.  He 
[188] 


IS  LOVE  ENOUGH? 

spoke  reverently,  almost  as  if  repeating  the 
creed. 

"  Oh,  love,  love,  love ! "  cried  Egeria,  a 
hint  of  impatience  in  her  tone.  One  rebels  at 
the  word.  For  centuries  poets  have  made  it 
their  theme,  philosophers  have  dogmatized 
over  it,  scientists  have  impaled  Cupid  on  a 
pin  and  studied  him  through  a  microscope, 
and  he  has  fluttered  his  bright  wings  and  es- 
caped you  all.  Therefore,  Love  is  never 
enough ;  for  he  comes  and  goes  like  the  wind, 
which  bloweth  where  it  listeth.  One  must  have 
other  solaces.  Love  is  merely  the  jam  on  one's 
bread.  The  bread  is  a  necessity ;  the  jam  sim- 
ply a  delightful  accessory,  lending  piquancy 
and  flavor  to  a  plain  and  somewhat  stodgy 
essential." 

The  Poet  cast  his  eyes  upward.  "  She  calls 
*  the  celestial  rapture  falling  out  of  heaven  ' 
— jam!  She  views  Love's  departure  with  phil- 
osophical equanimity ;  she  even  packs  his 
Gladstone  for  him,  and  says :  *  In  this  corner 
is  the  star-dust  with  which  to  sprinkle  your 
purple  wings,  and  in  this  is  your  wreath  of 
roses.  Do  not  hurry  back;  I  shall  do  nicely 
[189] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

with  my  embroidery,  the  mothers'  meetings 
and  the  last  novel  until  you  return.'  Woman ! 
Woman !  Capable  of  a  practical  and  positive 
materialism  that  man  can  never  know !  " 

Egeria  flushed.  "  Easily  refuted,"  she  re- 
turned with  some  heat.  "  When  Love  seeks 
his  true  haven,  it  is  in  our  hearts.  A  great 
poet  in  attempting  to  describe  an  endur- 
ing friendship  between  men,  could  find  no 
stronger,  more  impressive  simile  than  *  pass- 
ing the  love  of  women.'  That  immortal  phrase 
would  certainly  suggest  that  a  woman's 
knowledge  of  love  was  intimate,  perhaps  ex- 
clusive. Do  you  remember  what  Maeterlinck 
said  of  Emily  Bronte — that  she  penetrated 
the  most  impenetrable  secrets  of  love  to  such 
a  degree  that  those  who  have  loved  the  most 
deeply  must  sometimes  wonder  what  name 
they  should  give  to  the  passion  they  feel, 
when  she,  in  *  Wuthering  Heights,'  pours 
forth  the  exaltation  and  mystery  of  a  love 
beside  which  all  else  seems  pallid  and  casual. 

"  And  her  sister,  Charlotte,  sounded  depths 
never  reached  by  a  masculine  plummet,  when 
she  made  her  impossible  Rochester,  adored  by 
[190] 


IS  LOVE  ENOUGH? 

famous  beauties,  say  to  '  the  governess  in  the 
merino  dress  and  with  the  soul  of  flame ' : 
'  You,  Jane  Eyre,  poor,  plain,  insignificant, 
I  love  you !  " 

"  The  Bronte  sisters  cracked  like  an  egg- 
shell the  convention  of  the  man-written  fable, 
that  love  is  conditional  upon  externals;  that 
the  beloved  one  must  be  a  thing  of  roses  and 
snow,  that  her  speech  must  be  of  silver,  her 
garments  trail  with  light;  that  she  must  set 
the  '  jeweled  print  of  her  feet  in  violets  blue 
as  her  eyes.' ' 

"  That  is  because  man  is  a  poet  at  heart, 
and  not  a  mere  observer  of  the  mundane,  like 
woman,"  contended  the  Poet.  "  He  takes  for 
granted  what  should  be  the  fact,  that  the 
beautiful  soul  must  manifest  itself  beauti- 
fully, that  the  outer  radiance  is  but  the  sym- 
bol of  the  inner  loveliness." 

"  No  doubt,"  agreed  Egeria,  sweetly ; 
"  but  he  is  such  a  surly,  discontented  brute. 
When  he  gets  his  Felise,  or  his  Yolande,  or 
Juliette,  is  he  satisfied?  Not  he.  He  immedi- 
ately begins  to  pick  flaws  in  the  idol  of  his 
thought.  *  One  was  fair,'  he  grumbles,  *  but 
[191] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

beauty  dies  away;  and  one  was  wise,  but 
honeyed  words  betray;  and  one  was  true — 
ah,  why  not  true  to  me?  '  You  see,  nothing 
suits  him." 

"  And  that  is  because  man's  ideal  of  woman 
is  so  lofty,  and  she  so  inadequately  realizes 
it."  He  spoke  advisedly  very  low. 

"  The  kindest  thing  a  woman  can  ever  do 
for  a  man — "  mused  Egeria, 

"  Is  to  forgive  him,"  the  Poet  interpolated, 
seeing  her  pause. 

"  Not  at  all.  *  Forget  him  '  would  be  better. 
But,  really,  the  kindest  thing  a  woman  can 
ever  do  for  a  man  is  not  to  love  him;  or  if 
she  must  return  his  affection,  the  sooner  she 
dies  the  better.  All  of  the  great  love  poems 
have  been  written  to  commemorate  one  or  the 
other  of  these  situations.  Take  an  exception, 

*  Locksley  Hall.'  Do  you  think  that  if  Amy 
had  passed  away  just  after  her  cousin  saw 

*  her  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark  of 
hazel  eyes,'   he  would  later  have   called  her 
4  shallow-hearted  '     and     *  something    better 
than  a  dog,'  or  have  accused  her  of  being 
'  puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  servile  to  a 

[192] 


IS  LOVE  ENOUGH? 

shrewish  tongue '  ?  No  indeed.  She  made  the 
fatal  mistake  of  sitting  with  him  '  many  an 
evening  by  the  waters,  while  we  watched  the 
stately  ships,'  thus  giving  him  ample  oppor- 
tunity to  discover  those  faults  and  failings. 
If  she  had  only  possessed  the  grace  discreetly 
to  die  after  their  first  avowals,  she  might 
have  joined  the  immortal  ranks  of  Laura, 
Beatrice,  Evelyn  Hope,  the  lost  Lenore, 
Jeannie  Morrison  and  Rose  Aylmer." 

"And  every  virtue,  every  grace, 
Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine," 

murmured  the  Poet. 

"  Quite  so.  She  was  dead,"  rejoined  Egeria 
dryly.  "  Do  you  remember  another  poet's 
envious  comment  on  the  last  parting  between 
George  Sand  and  Alfred  de  Musset?  " 

The  Poet  momentarily  ransacked  his  mem- 
ory, ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair.  "  Ah !  " 
— catching  her  allusion: 

"  'There  lived  a  singer  in  France  of  old, 
By  the  tideless,  dolorous,  midland  sea; 
In  a  land  of  sand,  and  ruin,  and  gold, 
There  shone  one  woman,  and  none  but  she. 

[193] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

And  finding  life  for  her  love's  sake  fail, 
Being  fain  to  see  her,  he  bade  set  sail, 
Touched  land  and  saw  her  as  life  grew  cold, 
And  praised  God,  seeing;  and  so  died  he.' " 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  the  poet's  envious 
comment  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  There  was  a  gleam  of  mischief  in  Ege- 
ria's  eyes.  "  '  Oh,  brother,  the  gods  were  good 
to  you ! '  "  she  quoted  triumphantly,  the  line 
from  the  succeeding  verse. 

"  Flippancy  and  intentional  perversity  of 
meaning  are  not  argument  " — his  voice  was 
coldly  reproving.  "  Have  you  no  scruples  ?  " 

"  They  are  so  much  inconvenient  luggage, 
if  one  wishes  to  score,"  Egeria  admitted  with 
candor. 

"  Madame  Egeria,"  he  asked  wistfully, 
"  Do  you  think  that  women  have  much  sense 
of  the  poetry  of  love ;  of  its  exquisite,  fugi- 
tive quality  ?  " 

There  was  a  gleam  of  laughter  in  her  eyes. 
"  No,  I  think  they  object  very  strongly  to 
love's  exquisite,  fugitive  quality.  But "  — 
becoming  serious — "  quite  in  confidence,  I 
will  grant  that  woman  never  seems  able  to 
[194] 


IS  LOVE  ENOUGH? 

obey  or  even  comprehend  that  high  command 
of  Emerson's :  '  Leave  this  touching  and  claw- 
ing. Let  him  be  to  me  a  spirit,  a  message,  a 
thought,  a  sincerity.  A  glance  from  him  I 
want,  but  not  news  and  pottage.'  You  see, 
she  has  that  restless  feminine  desire  to  subdue 
all  things  to  herself — the  passion  of  the  slave, 
for  it  is  only  the  free  who  can  grant  free- 
dom. She  resents  *  the  spirit,  the  thought,  the 
sincerity.'  They  speak  to  her  of  unfettered 
things  and  she  is  jealous  of  abstractions.  She 
insists  upon  '  touching  and  clawing,'  and  she 
asks  only  *  the  news  and  the  pottage.' 

"  With  touching  credulity,  she  exhibits  a 
belief  in  ropes  of  sand  and  chains  of  water. 
She  shuts  her  captive  in  the  gilded  cage  of  her 
affections  and  imposes  upon  him  the  blasphe- 
mous commandment  of  the  eternal  feminine: 
*  Thou  shalt  have  no  other  gods  before  me ! ' : 

"  Hence  these  tears,"  said  the  Poet.  "  It  is 
a  lesson  man  never  can  learn,  never  will  learn, 
never  was  intended  to  learn." 

"  There  are  two  endings  to  that  story," 
continued    Egeria.    "  He    either   breaks    the 
cage  and   escapes,   or   he   becomes   properly 
[195] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

subdued  and  she  is  able  to  drag  the  poor, 
spiritless  beast  about  at  her  heels  and  call 
the  imposing  spectacle :  *  The  Triumph  of 
Love.'  " 

"  Psyche  forever  denies  to  Love  his  re- 
serves, forever  lights  her  lamp  to  surprise  his 
secret  slumbers,"  sighed  the  Poet. 

"  Well,  why  not? "  cried  Egeria  with  a 
sudden  change  of  front.  "  Through  the  long 
centuries  woman  has  had  to  have  something 
to  occupy  her  thoughts,  and  curiosity  is  the 
first  tenant  of  an  empty  mind.  Man  has  al- 
ways lived  in  a  world  twice  as  big  as  a 
woman's,  and  his  vocabulary  has  naturally 
been  much  larger.  It  has  included  '  war,  fame, 
toil,  wine,  woman,  song  and  philosophy  ' ;  but 
until  recently,  woman  has  had  to  lisp  the  one 
word  she  learned  far  back  in  the  caves — 
1  man.'  " 

"  I  do  not  see  why  it  should  be  so,"  argued 
the  Poet.  "  Why  does  not  her  vocabulary  in- 
clude woman  also?  " 

"  Ah,"  admitted  Egeria,  "  That  is  where 
her  good,  hard,  practical  common  sense  comes 
in.  You  men,  the  stronger  physically,  are  re- 
[196] 


IS  LOVE  ENOUGH? 

sponsible  for  that  in  founding  the  institution 
of  marriage.  Marriage  has  meant — does  still 
mean  for  that  matter — woman's  best  chance 
of  establishing  herself  enviably  and  honor- 
ably in  life,  of  gaining  an  assured  living  and 
securing  a  competence  for  her  old  age.  Nat- 
urally, as  in  most  business  pursuits,  compe- 
tition is  keen.  Consequently  every  woman  has 
for  centuries  regarded  every  other  woman  as 
a  possible  foe.  The  exigencies  of  social  life 
demand  intercourse  between  woman  and 
woman,  but  this  is  guarded  and  cautious. 
The  foils  may  be  at  rest ;  but  the  buttons  are 
always  off." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  there  are  no 
friendships  between  women  ?  "  exclaimed  the 
Poet.  "  Absurd !  I  know  a  dozen  of  them. 
Look  at  yourself  and  Castilia !  " 

Egeria  bit  her  lip  a  moment,  and  then  bent 
down  apparently  to  pick  up  her  handkerchief. 
She  seemed  to  strangle  a  cough. 

"  I  have  always  thought  of  the  friendship 
between  you  two  as  a  steel  cable,"  went  on  the 
Poet,  "  which  neither  want  nor  woe,  time  nor 
calumny  could  break." 

[197] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

"  Of  course,"  assented  Egeria  easily,  al- 
though she  could  hardly  repress  the  ripple 
of  amusement  in  her  voice ;  "  but  suppose  the 
right  man  were  to  appear,  is  it  not  a  possi- 
bility that  those  steel  cables  might  snap  like 
daisy  chains  ?  " 

He  shook  his  head  dissentingly.  "  How 
about  Ruth  and  Naomi  ?  "  There  was  triumph 
in  his  tone. 

"  One  of  the  most  beautiful  pieces  of  fic- 
tion ever  written,"  she  assured  him. 

His  face  hardened.  "  No  wreaths  for 
either  the  altars  of  love  or  of  friendship? 
You  are  flippant  to-day." 

"  To  admit  that  love  is  *  almost  enough ' 
is  a  pretty  big  wreath,"  she  expostulated. 
"  And  as  for  friendship," — becoming  earn- 
est— "  friendship  is  a  matter  of  destiny.  One 
may  not  force  it,  one  may  not  evade  it. 
*  Asleep,  awake,  by  night  by  day,  the  friends 
I  seek  are  seeking  me.' ' 

"  A  boon  you   can  never  know,"   he   as- 
serted. 

"  And  why,  pray,"  Egeria  sat  stiffly  up- 
right, her  eyes  wide. 

[198] 


IS  LOVE  ENOUGH? 

"  Because  friendship  is  impossible  between 
a  man  and  a  woman.  Imperceptibly,  inevi- 
tably, it  merges  into  love." 

"  A  commonplace  of  the  centuries,  a  most 
superficial  estimate,  a  dogma  of  sophistry." 

The  Poet  looked  bewildered.  "  But  you 
have  just  informed  me  that  women  were  in- 
capable of  friendship  ?  " 

"  What  a  typical  example  of  the  way  one's 
speeches  are  usually  reported !  I  said,  largely 
for  the  sake  of  argument,  that  for  centuries, 
women  had  found  friendships  with  each  other 
impractical  and  inexpedient;  but,  be  that  as 
it  may,  some  of  the  truest,  deepest,  warmest 
friendships  that  ever  have  existed  were  and 
are  between  men  and  women.  A  woman  will 
keep  a  man's  secrets  when  she  can't  keep  her 
own.  She  will  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  be  of 
assistance  to  him;  she  will  sacrifice  her  time, 
her  conscience  and  her  fellow  beings  to  fur- 
ther his  advancement." 

"  And  not  love  him?  "  questioned  the  Poet 
incredulously. 

"  Not  in  the  sense  you  mean.  Certainly  she 
loves  him;  but  maternally.  You  men  never 
[199] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

seem  to  understand  that  women  love  in  two 
ways,  and  that  their  friendship  is  often 
largely  an  instinct  to  mother  you." 

"  One  of  Cupid's  strongest  weapons  is  pro- 
pinquity," he  interposed.  "  Call  the  interest 
which  attracts  a  man  or  woman  friendship 
or  what  you  will ;  but  throw  them  constantly 
together  and  the  result  is  love." 

"  In  nine  cases  out  of  ten — yes,"  she  ac- 
quiesced, "  that  is,  if  you  choose  to  call  it  so. 
But  it  is  not  love;  it  is  merely  an  instance 
of  '  I  must  love  some  one  and  it  might  as  well 
be  you.'  That  has  nothing  to  do  with  either 
the  predestination  of  friendship  or  the  inev- 
itableness  of  love." 

He  refused  to  be  comforted.  "  *  But  look, 
you  have  cast  out  love,'  *  what  gods  are  these, 
you  bid  me  please?  ' 

"  I  cast  out  love !  "  Egeria's  eyes  dreamed. 
"  No,  No !  I  only  cast  out  the  counterfeits, 
the  base  spurious  imitations. 

M  'All  words  that  pass  the  lips  of  mortal  men 
With  inner  and  with  outer  meaning  shine; 
An  outer  gleam  that  meets  the  common  ken, 
An  inner  light  that  but  the  few  divine.' 
[200] 


IS  LOVE  ENOUGH? 

"  Oh,  Poet,  there  is 

"  '  The  love  celestial  seeking  still 

The  soul  beneath  the  forms;  the  serene  will, 
The  wisdom  of  whose  deeps  the  sages  dream; 
The  unseen  beauty  that  doth  faintly  gleam 
In  stars  and  flowers  and  waters  where  they  roll; 
The  unheard  music  whose  faint  echoes  even 
Make  whosoever  hears  a  homesick  soul  there- 
after.' " 

The  Poet  sat  in  silence  a  moment  twirling 
his  hat  in  his  hands,  then  he  lifted  his  head 
quickly ;  his  charming  face  white  and  hag- 
gard. 

"  Egeria,  Egeria,  you  have  been  my  friend. 
Tell  me,  is  there  any  hope  for  me?  Cas- 
tilia " 

Egeria's  face  saddened,  a  haze  crept  over 
her  eyes.  This  was  a  case  for  the  knife  and  she 
knew  it. 

"  No,  dear  Poet."  A 

He  winced  sharply.  "  Why  do  you  say  it  in 
that  final  tone?  Women  often  change  their 
minds." 

"  Ah,  yes.  But  not  in  this  case.  Dear  Poet, 
I  have  sympathized  with  you,  would  have 
[201] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

done  anything  to  help  you  had  there  been  any 
hope  from  the  first.  But  there  never  has. 
And  " — after  a  little  pause — "  I  do  not  mean 
it  for  comfort,  because  it  is  very  cold  com- 
fort ;  but  I  see  now  what  you  will  realize  some 
day — that  it  is  better  so."  She  had  risen  from 
her  chair  and  was  standing  beside  him. 

He  shook  his  down-bent  head  impatiently, 
murmuring  some  inarticulate  words. 

"  I  have  been  going  over  your  poems,"  she 
continued,  touching  the  proof  sheets  lying  on 
the  table,  "  and  they  have  surprised  and  de- 
lighted me." 

He  looked  at  them  with  a  sick  distaste, 
a  disdain  that  for  the  moment  at  least  was 
sincere. 

"  Poet,  listen  to  me,"  Egeria's  voice  was 
stern.  "  These  new  poems  show  a  wonderful 
cooperation  of  intellect  and  imagination,  the 
significance  of  which  is  very  plain  to  me.  A 
genuine  creative  faculty  has  been  stirred  and 
invigorated  and  is  at  work.  It  is  no  light 
thing  to  awaken  such  a  power,  and  the  price 
it  demands  of  one  in  whose  hands  it  places 
its  service  is  a  high  one.  It  asks  all,  all  that 
[202] 


IS  LOVE  ENOUGH? 

you  have  to  give.  You  will  never  belong  to 
yourself.  Through  your  hours  of  joy  and 
grief,  of  work  or  play,  no  matter  what  their 
claims,  you  will  hear  that  call  forever  in  your 
ears,  low,  insistent,  imperative,  and  inexor- 
able— '  follow  me  ' ;  and  you  must  forever 
heed  it,  live  for  it,  love  it,  starve  and  die 
for  it,  if  needs  be.  You,  to  regard  yourself 
as  merely  Castilia's  lover !  Ah,  Poet,  you  must 
rise  to  your  gift !  " 

For  a  moment  her  words  roused  him.  His 
spirit  sprang  to  her  call.  Then  he  fell  into 
listlessness  again. 

"  My  love  for  her  inspired  those  verses  you 
like,"  he  cried. ."  Suppose  I  do  get  the  '  gold 
and  the  laurel '  you  prophesy  for  me  ?  With- 
out her,  it  would  seem  like  dust  and  sand. 
Oh,  I  can  never  write  again.  Egeria,  Egeria ! 
If  she  had  only  loved  me  I  would  not  have 
asked  the  laurel  wreath ;  her  love  would  have 
been  to  me  a  '  jeweled  circlet  flaming  through 
heaven.'  " 

Egeria  smiled  down  at  him,  but  there  were 
tears  in  her  eyes.   He  seemed  so  boyish,  so 
young  all  at  once.  "  Dear  Poet,"  her  hand 
[203] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

fell  gently  on  his  hair,  "  we  have  all  dreamed 
of  the  jeweled  circlet  of  a  perfect  love  which 
should  flame  through  heaven,  and  we  all  end 
by  gratefully  accepting  instead,  '  some  leaves 
of  wild  olive,  cool  to  the  tired  brow  through 
a  few  years  of  peace.' ' 

"  But  I  cannot  stay  here,  Egeria,  I  must 
go,  go  at  once." 

"  Yes,  you  must  go,  the  sooner  the  better. 
Go  far,  dear  Poet,  to  the  other  side  of  the 
world." 

"  Yes."  He  rose  and  looked  dazedly  about 
him;  then  lifting  her  hands,  laid  his  cheek 
against  them  for  a  moment,  smiled  bravely 
into  her  pitiful  eyes,  and  was  gone. 


[204] 


THE   SUPREME   INTEREST 


"This  casket  India's  glowing  gems  unlocks, 
And  all  Arabia  breathes  from  yonder  box. 
The  tortoise  here  and  elephant  unite, 
Transformed  to  combs,  the  speckled  and  the  white. 
Here  files  of  pins  extend  their  shining  rows, 
Puffs,  powder,  patches,  bibles,  billet-doux. 
Now  awful  beauty  puts  on  all  its  arms; 
The  fair  each  moment  rises  in  her  charms." 

ALEXANDER  POPE. 


CHAPTER    TEN 
THE  SUPREME  INTEREST 

ASTILIA  was  walking  restlessly  about 
Egeria's  room,  first  pausing  before 
one  mirror  and  then  another  in  an  effort  to 
get  the  complete  effect  of  a  new  hat  and 
gown.  They  had  been  invited  to  drive  over 
to  the  Rich  Man's  to  view  his  magnificent 
chrysanthemums  and  remain  to  dinner,  and 
Egeria  was  adding  the  last  touches  to  her 
toilet  before  starting. 

"  I  do  not  like  this  hat,"  Castilia's  tone 
was  tragic. 

"  Why  did  you  get  it  then  ? "  asked 
Egeria  with  practical  if  aggravating  com- 
mon sense. 

"  It    looked    well    enough    in    the    shop," 

grumbled  Castilia.  "  Those  women  who  sell 

them  have  a  knack  of  putting  them  on  which 

cannot  be  imitated.  One  can  never  again  set 

[207] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

them  on  one's  head  at  exactly  the  same  an- 
gle, no  matter  how  many  hours  may  be 
given  to  the  attempt ;  and  there  is  a  diaboli- 
cal art  in  the  saleswoman's  way  of  twisting 
a  veil  about  one's  head.  She  seems  able  to 
give  an  indefinable  distinction  to  the  appear- 
ance that  my  bungling  efforts  can  never 
secure." 

"  Yes,"  sighed  her  friend,  "  and  after  she 
has  adjusted  the  hat  and  fastened  the  veil 
with  deft  touches,  there  follows  the  expres- 
sion of  her  admiration,  so  infectious,  so 
spontaneous,  so  grateful  and  comforting 
that  one  immediately  feels  a  warm  devotion 
to  the  bonnet  which  inspired  it.  But  when  at 
home  before  the  mirror,  we  are  apt  to  ex- 
perience a  change  of  heart." 

"  That  is  just  it,"  assented  Castilia,  "  and 
why  is  it  that  one's  own  mirror  seems  so 
brutally  frank,  even  cynical  and  satirical 
after  the  flattering  pier  glasses  of  milliners 
and  dressmakers?  They  are  all  probably 
manufactured  at  the  same  places." 

"  Then," — the  remembrance  of  her  past 
and  present  sorrows  rousing  her  to  elo- 
[208] 


THE  SUPREME  INTEREST 
quence,  "  we  draw  the  hat  from  the  boi 
after  it  has  been  sent  home  and  behold,  in 
some  magic  way  it  has  suffered  a  change. 
Is  this  unsightly  object  the  confection  which 
so  well  became  us  in  the  shop?  There  it 
rested  on  the  head  so  lightly  and  firmly  that 
we  believed  the  highest  wind  couldn't  blow 
it  off;  and  here,  at  home,  adjusted  by  Our 
own  unskilled  fingers,  it  wobbles  unsteadily 
above  one  eye.  Now  why  is  it,  Egeria?  " 

"  Ah !  the  milliner  knows  why."  Egeria 
leisurely  drew  on  her  gloves.  "  That  is  her 
secret.  That  is  where  she  scores.  And  by 
the  way,  Castilia,"  earnestly,  as  became  the 
importance  of  the  theme,  "  Did  you  happen 
to  ask  your  milliner  what  sort  of  a  year  it 
is  going  to  be,  whether  flowers,  feathers, 
fur,  lace,  fruit  or  vegetables  ?  " 

"  I  did  not,"  answered  Castilia.  "  What  is 
the  use,"  —  pessimistically  —  "  we  will  all 
wear  whatever  it  is,  no  matter  whether  we 
like  it  or  not." 

"  I  trust  it  will  be  a  vegetable  year." 
Egeria  added  a  touch  of  powder  to  her  nose, 
turning  right  and  left  to  view  the  effect. 

t 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

"  Potatoes  and  carrots  come  in  good  shades ; 
but  I  am  rather  hoping  cabbages  will  hold 
first  place  in  popular  favor.  I  should  like 
nothing  better  than  a  scooped-out  cabbage 
on  my  head.  Those  delicate  blue-greens  are 
so  becoming  to  me." 

"  O  Egeria,  you  are  too  absurd !  " 

"  I  am  not,"  averred  Egeria.  "  Why  are 
vegetables  any  more  absurd  than  fruit  and 
flowers  and  birds  and  beasts?  I  am  sure  that 
without  protest,  we  adorn  ourselves  with 
dead  birds,  thus  following  a  fashion  that  the 
heathen  would  scorn  to  emulate;  and,  Cas- 
tilia,  truly  it  would  be  a  matter  of  scientific 
interest  to  discover  the  curious  law  which 
impels  women  with  large  noses  to  wear  par- 
rots on  their  hats.  It  must  be  the  instinct 
of  natural  selection." 

Castilia  only  laughed. 

"  Crowned  with  our  barbaric  spoils  we 
gravely  attend  lectures  given  under  the 
auspices  of  the  Audubon  Society,"  went  on 
Egeria,  "  and  we  listen  with  wooden  and 
unmoved  countenances  to  the  hideous  tales 
of  slaughter.  Equally  wooden  and  unmoved 
[210] 


THE  SUPREME  INTEREST 
are  our  souls.  '  Birds  are  the  fad  of  the 
season.  They  are  on  all  really  good  hats. 
Everyone  else  is  wearing  them.'  These  ar- 
guments suffice.  Woman  has  never  advanced 
a  step  from  barbarism  in  her  ideals  of  or- 
namentation, and  she  is  cruel  as  the  grave." 

Castilia  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  tried 
the  effect  of  another  veil. 

"  Look  at  that  hat  you  wore  to  church 
yesterday,  Castilia.  It  is  composed  of  some 
fur,  a  few  scraps  of  lace,  the  head  and  claws 
of  an  animal,  a  wreath  of  orchids,  some  rib- 
bon and  a  bird." 

"  That  hat ! "  CastihVs  tone  was  horri- 
fied. "  That  hat  is  an  artist's  dream.  Every 
woman  who  has  seen  it  has  raved  over  it. 
It  is  lovely.  There  is  something  wrong  with 
your  eyes." 

"  I  admit  you  look  a  picture  in  it ;  but 
then  you  would  look  a  picture  in  a  coal 
scuttle."  Egeria  softened  her  condemnation 
of  the  hat  by  this  sop.  "  But  it  is  not  ar- 
tistic. It  is  a  melange  of  incongruous  ar- 
ticles, which  put  together,  defy  the  eternal 
principle  of  beauty — harmony." 
[211] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

"  O  Egeria,  you  always  have  to  go  into 
the  ethics  of  a  thing,  as  if  ethics  applied  to 
hats." 

"  They  do,"  argued  Egeria.  "  What  could 
more  fitly  embody  the  stringent  morality 
of  the  early  Victorian  era  than  the  old- 
fashioned,  round,  poke-bonnet?  What  could 
be  more  demure,  more  uncompromising, 
more  suggestive  of  British  matronism?  It 
frowned  as  sternly  upon  coquetry  as  Savon- 
arola. It  did  its  best  to  conceal  certain  win- 
ning charms,  such  as  the  tip  of  a  shell-like 
ear,  tendrils  of  hair,  blushes  on  a  delicate 
cheek.  Bright  eyes  might  shine  in  its  fun- 
nel-shaped depths,  but  who  had  the  time  or 
patience  to  discover  the  fact  ?  " 

"  As  a  preventive  of  earache,  it  may  have 
been  excellent ;  but  as  a  thing  of  beauty  it 
was  a  failure.  Women,  gazing  at  its  blank 
ugliness  endeavored  to  mitigate  it  somewhat 
by  twining  it  with  flowers  and  twisting  it 
with  ribbons ;  but  it  never  really  assimilated 
these  gauds  as  a  part  of  itself.  It  simply 
suffered  them  and  still  remained  remote  and 
isolated  in  its  monumental  hideousness." 


THE  SUPREME  INTEREST 

"  Egeria,  you  are  preaching  again.  You 
know  you  made  me  promise  to  stop  you 
whenever  you  began." 

Egeria  colored.  "  Well,  let  us  get  away 
from  ethics  then.  Probably  the  only  impor- 
tant ethical  consideration  about  the  whole 
subject  is  that  the  hat  should  be  becoming 
and  suit  the  woman." 

"  It  rarely  does,"  Castilia  scowled  at  her 
reflection.  "  Here's  a  picture  for  you :  The 
lady  with  the  large,  round  face  and  the  hat 
too  small  for  her." 

"  Yes,  and  in  that  same  gallery  of  mourn- 
ful mental  pictures  hangs  another  tearful 
mockery,  the  stout  motherly  woman  with 
the  good,  kind,  plain  face  crowned  with  the 
disfiguring  frivolity  of  a  picture  hat." 

"  Isn't  a  hat  a  sort  of  monstrosity  any- 
way? "  Castilia,  glass  in  hand,  was  attempt- 
ing a  side  view. 

"  It  need  not  be.  The  great  artists  have 
never  undervalued  it  as  a  picturesque  ad- 
junct to  beauty,  affording  a  most  alluring 
background,  a  soft  shadow  against  which 
the  face  may  gleam.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
[213] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

Gainsborough  and  Romney  understood  to 
the  full  what  suggestions  of  character  may 
be  introduced  into  a  mere  matter  of  crown 
and  brim.  Who,  on  gazing  merely  at  the 
pictured  face  of  the  lovely  Duchess  of  Dev- 
onshire, could  fancy  her  going  forth  to 
purchase  with  kisses  the  votes  Charles  James 
Fox  so  sorely  needed.  But  in  the  sweep  of 
that  great  audacious  hat,  one  reads  the  real 
daring,  the  indifference  to  public  opinion, 
which  formed  a  part  of  her  character." 

Egeria's  dissertation  was  interrupted  by 
a  knock  at  the  door.  A  maid  entered  and 
handed  her  a  letter  and  a  telegram.  "  Ah," 
— disappointedly,  as  she  read  the  letter — 
"  The  Commonplace  Man  cannot  join  us 
this  afternoon.  Business!  The  conventional 
and  convenient  excuse.  I  wonder  if  he  really 
wanted  to  come." 

"  Really  wanted  to  come !  "  echoed  Cas- 
tilia  in  profound  astonishment.  "  And  every- 
where Egeria  went,  the  Commonplace  Man 
was  sure  to  go.  Some  one  asked  the  other 
day  if  the  Commonplace  Man  were  not 
your  shadow,  and  some  one  else  replied: 
[214] 


THE  SUPREME  INTEREST 
*  No,  he  is  merely  a  part  of  her  stage  set- 
ting,   the    background    against    which    she 
moves.' ' 

Egeria  flushed  angrily,  and  Castilia, 
realizing  too  late  that  she  had  wounded  the 
lady  she  truly  loved,  asked  hastily,  "  Why 
do  you  not  open  your  letter?  " 

"Ah!  I  had  forgotten  it.  Castilia!"— 
drawing  it  from  the  envelope  and  hastily 
scanning  it — "  It  has  been  sent  back  by  the 
pilot.  It  is  from  the  Poet!" 

A  slight  blush  rose  on  Castilia's  cheek. 
"  Egeria,"  she  began  rather  timidly,  "  when 
he  said  good-by,  he  mentioned  that  he  had 
told  you  how  he  felt  about  me.  Wasn't  it 
tiresome  of  him  to  get  such  ideas  in  his 
head?  "  appealingly.  "  He  was  a  nice  boy 
until  he  got  so  foolish.  I  never  had  a  play- 
mate I  liked  so  weh1,  and  then," — with  un- 
utterable disdain  in  her  voice,  "  for  him  to 
spoil  it  all ;  and  race  across  the  world  in  that 
melodramatic  way !  " 

Egeria's  smile  was  amused  but  very  ten- 
der. "  Castilia  you  are  too  young  to  appre- 
ciate him.  But  come,  we  shall  be  late.  I  have 
[215] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

heard  the  motor  puffing  and  panting  below 
for  a  good  fifteen  minutes." 

"  The  dear  Poet ! "  she  murmured  after  a 
few  moments  of  silence,  as  they  drove  along 
the  country  roads  through  the  golden  haze 
of  Indian  Summer.  "  How  sweet  of  him  to 
write  me." 

Castilia  stirred  restlessly.  "  I  dare  say 
we  shall  see  some  really  good  frocks  this 
afternoon.  That  is  a  wonderful  one  you  are 
wearing.  I  once  heard  a  woman  say  that 
you  were  not  even  pretty ;  but  that  you  were 
considered  beautiful  because  you  had  dis- 
covered the  secret  of  the  art  of  dress.  What 
is  the  secret  anyway?  " 

Her  companion  laughed  and  then  grew 
thoughtful.  "  I  wonder  if  it  could  not  be 
summed  up  in  a  phrase — the  accentuation 
of  type?  Does  it  not  lie  in  the  ability  to 
bring  out  the  individuality,  to  make  a  pic- 
ture of  one's  self?  Think  how  often  one 
hears  expressions  of  this  kind,  *  She  dresses 
very  handsomely;  but  she  does  not  under- 
stand her  style  in  the  least.'  After  all,  I 
wonder  if  that  isn't  the  very  art  and  secret 
[216] 


THE  SUPREME  INTEREST 
of  a  charming  appearance — the  understand- 
ing of  one's  style?  " 

"  It  is  rather  a  vague  phrase,"  contended 
Castilia. 

"  Perhaps ;  but  does  it  not  mean  the  in- 
tuitive or  acquired  knowledge  of  the  color 
which  will  harmonize  best  with  the  complex- 
ion ;  the  trick  of  arranging  the  hair  to  show 
the  features  and  the  contour  of  the  face  to 
the  best  advantage;  a  gown  so  cut  as  to 
emphasize  the  best  lines  of  the  figure? 
Women  think  so  unceasingly  about  clothes 
and  discuss  the  subject  so  interminably,  that 
it  is  one  of  the  eternal  puzzles  why  the 
majority  of  them  are  so  destitute  of  ar- 
tistic sense  in  the  selection  of  a  wardrobe." 

"  Well,"  remarked  Castilia  philosophi- 
cally, "  we  shall  see  a  number  of  our  friends 
this  afternoon,  who  have  failed  to  grasp 
those  subtle  distinctions.  There  will  be  Brun- 
hilda  Black  in  pink.  Why  should  a  woman 
with  red  hair  wear  pink?  " 

Egeria  laughed.  "  They  all  do.  Was  there 
ever   a  woman  with  any   of  the   shades   of 
red  hair,  from  Henner's  beautiful,  deep  hue 
[  217  ] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

to  those  ever  so  lightly  kissed  by  the  sun 
who  did  not  exhibit  a  perfect  passion  for 
wearing  every  gradation  of  that  pink  which 
jars  so  frightfully  with  her  auburn  locks?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  Brunhilda  is  as  bad  as 
Blanche  White,"  continued  Castilia  who  was 
in  the  mood  for  personalities.  "  You  are  al- 
ways philosophizing  and  talking  about  the 
ethics  of  things,  then  please  explain  why  a 
woman  with  hair  like  a  faint  cloud  of  dust, 
and  skin  and  eyes  of  the  same  dull  monotone 
should  invariably  array  herself  in  faded 
brownish-grays  and  pale  mustard  hues? 
There  is  a  certain  mixed  clay-colored  mate- 
rial which  colorless  women  seem  to  regard 
with  peculiar  favor." 

"  Yes,"  Egeria  could  not  forbear  smil- 
ing, "  and  often  when  gazing  at  the  mouse- 
colored  lady  in  the  mustard  clothes,  I  feel 
a  suspicious  sympathy  with  those  bold  souls 
who  affirm  that  the  greatest  crime  a  woman 
can  commit  is  to  add  to  the  general  sum 
of  ugliness  and  depression  in  a  world  meant 
to  be  supremely  glad  and  beautiful." 

"  But  change  the  picture,  Castilia,  put 
[218] 


THE  SUPREME  INTEREST 
one  of  those  hueless  madonnas  into  black 
and  white,  not  black  or  white,  and  she  be- 
comes a  dainty  pastel,  elusive,  wistful  and 
haunting,  instead  of  a  drab  monotone." 

"  There  is  a  sort  of  perversity  in  us  which 
makes  us  admire  all  the  things  we  have  no 
business  to,  I  suppose.  You  are  asking  very 
perplexing  conundrums  by  the  way,  Cas- 
tilia." 

"  I  can  keep  on  asking  that  kind  all  day," 
replied  the  Bishop's  daughter  cheerfully. 
"  Why  does  a  splendid  creature  like  Gri- 
selda  Gray,  with  the  figure  of  a  goddess, 
cling  to  the  frills  and  ruffles  of  immature 
fifteen;  and  a  thin  little  thing  like  Evadne 
Green  adopt  gowns  of  the  severest,  plainest 
lines?  Why  does  the  woman,  whose  hair 
should  be  waved  from  her  brow,  wear  a 
mop  reaching  to  her  eyes;  and  why  does 
the  lady,  who  needs  a  redeeming  fringe, 
uncompromisingly  drag  back  every  single 
hair?" 

Egeria  clapped  her  hands  over  her  ears. 
"  Stop,   stop,"    she   cried,   "  we   have   spent 
this  entire  afternoon  talking  about  clothes. 
[219] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

Consider  the  lilies,  Castilia.  You  are  too 
beautiful  to  bother  over  what  you  shall  and 
shall  not  wear.  Anything  will  serve.  The 
Poet  says  you  are  a  *  red,  red  rose.' ' 

Castilia  looked  scornful.  "  The  Poet  is  so 
tiresomely  young." 

"  But  you  are  young,  too." 

"Ill  am  twenty-five.  That  is  not  young 
for  a  woman.  It  is  quite  old.  And  I  never  did 
care  for  very  young  men.  I  like  men  of 
middle  age,  over  forty,  you  know.  Distin- 
guished, successful  men,  who  have  accom- 
plished a  lot  and  stand  for  something.  The 
kind  of  men  who  are  sought  and  admired 
by  both  men  and  women." 

Egeria  nodded  comprehension.  "  Like  the 
Judge,  for  instance." 

"  Oh,  no,"  with  a  quick  start,  "  I  was  not 
even  thinking  of  him ;  but  now  that  you 
mention  him;  he  is  rather  remarkable,  is  he 
not?  Some  women,  I  have  heard,  consider 
him  very  fascinating." 

"  Indeed,  yes."  Egeria's  tone  was  inno- 
cently hearty.  "  I  know  of  one  at  least  who 
does." 

[220] 


THE  SUPREME  INTEREST 

"Who,"  cajoled  Castilia.  "Ah,  tell  me? 
Be  a  dear  and  tell  me." 

"  Never.  It  is  useless  to  ask." 

"  I  often  feel,"  sighed  Castilia,  "  that  he 
must  find  me  very  uninteresting.  Now 
you " 

"  When  you  are  as  old  as  I  am,"  laughed 
her  companion,  "  you  will  know  that  a  man 
like  that  cares  very  little  about  a  woman 
like  me." 

"  But  he  is  so  poised,  so  mature.  I  must 
seem  very  raw  and  young  to  him." 

"  Seem  too  young !  "  Egeria's  astonish- 
ment was  unfeigned.  "  Why,  he  is  forty-five 
if  he  is  a  day !  " 

"  I  do  not  see  what  that  has  to  do  with 
it." 

"Do  you  not?  I  do." 

"  Well,  dismissing  the  Judge  and  speak- 
ing quite  in  the  abstract,  Egeria,  do  you 
think  twenty  years  is  too  much  difference 
in  age  between  a  man  and  a  woman  if  they 
happen  to  care  for  one  another  ?  " 

"I  think,"  said  Egeria,  "that  if  you 
would  throw  those  twenty  years  and  happi- 
[221  ] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

ness  on  the  balances,  you  would  find  the 
years  would  not  amount  to  a  feather's 
weight,  so  heavily  would  the  scales  tip  on 
the  happiness  side.  But  here  we  are!  The 
chrysanthemums  have  probably  taken  their 
petals  out  of  curl  papers  and  are  anxiously 
awaiting  our  arrival." 


THE   INTELLECTUAL   WOMAN 


'To-day  deep  thoughts  resolve  with  me  to  drench 
In  mirth,  that  after  no  repenting  draws; 
Let  Euclid  rest  and  Archimedes  pause, 
And  what  the  Swede  intend,  and  what  the  French. 
To  measure  life  learn  thou  betimes,  and  know 
Toward  solid  good,  what  leads  the  nearest  way." 

JOHN  MILTON. 


CHAPTER    ELEVEN 
THE  INTELLECTUAL  WOMAN 

IT  was  one  of  those  mild  November 
evenings  when  the  moon  shines  dimly 
through  flying  clouds  and  the  soft  wind 
sighs  with  some  mysterious,  untranslatable 
music;  and,  after  dinner  Egeria  stole  back 
to  the  chrysanthemum  garden.  With  only  a 
light  wrap  about  her  shoulders  she  hastened 
down  the  paths,  and  then  paused  overcome 
by  the  beauty  before  her.  Within  the  walled 
garden  the  flowers,  which  she  had  seen, 
earlier  in  one  sunlit  glow  of  color,  were  now 
masses  of  snow  and  shadow.  A  tiny  crescent 
moon,  half  obscured  by  trailing  clouds, 
swung  far  up  in  the  sky.  Against  its  light 
were  outlined  the  bare,  black  branches  of 
the  trees  beyond  the  wall,  and  the  delicate 
intricate  tracery  of  the  myriad  twigs. 
"  Ah-h,"  Egeria  drew  a  deep  breath  as 
[225] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

if  drinking  in  the  loveliness  of  the  night ; 
and  then  hearing  footsteps  behind  her, 
turned  quickly  to  face  the  Judge. 

"  I  am  sure  you  do  not  want  to  be  dis- 
turbed," he  began.  "  You  are  probably 
studying  color  and  effects  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing ;  but  " — glancing  furtively  about 
him — "  I  am  flying  from  an  intellectual  lady. 
Please  rescue  me." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Egeria.  "  Let  me  ex- 
press my  appreciation  of  your  delicate  skill 
in  handling  a  two-edged  weapon." 

The  Judge  ignored  the  retort  courteous. 
"  A  woman  never  seems  able  to  take  her  in- 
tellect sanely,"  he  continued  gloomily.  "  If 
such  gifts  as  great  beauty  and  transcendent 
virtue  become  obnoxious  when  they  are 
vaunted  by  their  possessors,  then  how  much 
more  objectionable  is  intellectual  vainglory? 
A  woman  affects  to  take  her  beauty  meekly 
— '  a  poor  thing  but  mine  own  ' ;  she  is  re- 
garded with  suspicion  if  she  prates  of  her 
virtue;  but  of  her  brain  she  makes  a  pa- 
geant." 

"  Ah,"  remarked  Egeria,  with  languor, 
[226] 


THE  INTELLECTUAL  WOMAN 
"  and  I  dare  say  you  hold  to  those  rococco 
views  so  thoroughly  incorporated  in  the 
thirty-nine  articles  of  man's  creed,  that  a 
woman's  mentality  is  always  in  inverse  ratio 
to  her  powers  of  attraction." 

The  Judge  refused  to  answer  a  direct 
question.  "  I  don't  care  how  much  intellect 
she  has,"  he  insisted  stoutly,  "  I  only  re- 
quest that  she  doesn't  flaunt  it  in  my  face, 
and  ask  me  to  sit  an  admiring  and  applaud- 
ing audience  while  she  puts  it  through  its 
paces.  It  is  not  her  possession  of  it  that 
I  object  to;  it's  her  self-consciousness  about 
it.  She  never  ignores  it  or  allows  it  to  go 
and  sit  quietly  in  the  corner.  It  is  always 
in  evidence." 

"  In  a  way  you  are  right,"  admitted 
Egeria,  reluctantly.  "  I  wonder  why  it  is. 
I  know  quantities  of  clever  men;  but  they 
rarely  seem  to  regard  themselves  as  *  We 
are  the  people,  knowledge  shall  die  with  us.5 
They  are  apt  to  prate  enthusiastically  and 
endlessly  of  some  new  and  rather  boyish 
hobby.  For  instance  there  is  a  man  whose 
achievements  in  a  particular  line  have  made 
[227] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

him  a  great  figure;  now  he  finds  his  rest 
and  recreation  in  painting  atrocious  pic- 
tures. Of  his  important  and  interesting 
work  he  rarely  speaks ;  but  he  will  descant 
endlessly  upon  the  merits  of  those  abomin- 
able pictures,  and  exhibit  them  with  a  naive 
and  childlike  pride." 

"But,"  asked  the  Judge  quickly,  "did 
you  ever  know  a  woman  lawyer,  or  actress, 
or  writer,  or  mathematician  who  would  fore- 
go all  mention  of  her  life  work  to  discourse 
joyously  on  the  making  of  buttonholes?  " 

"  It  is  so  short  a  time  that  women  have 
been  credited  with  an  ability  to  think  " — 
Egeria  spoke  dryly — "  that  they  naturally 
like  to  air  their  accomplishments." 

"  There  should  be  a  book  issued  for 
them,"  advised  the  Judge — "  '  How  Not  to 
Be  a  Bore.5  And  why  are  they  so  plain?  Is 
nature  so  niggardly  that  she  will  not  dower 
a  woman  with  brains  and  beauty  at  the  same 
time,  or  is  there  a  fierce,  devastating  microbe 
of  the  intelect  which  devours  all  the  germs 
of  latent  loveliness  ?  " 

"  We  cannot  all  be  as  beautiful  as  Cas- 
[228] 


THE  INTELLECTUAL  WOMAN 

tilia,"  she  replied  without  apparent  meaning. 
"  I  admit  " — there  was  a  deluding  fairness  in 
her  tones — "  that  there  are  few  things  more 
difficult  to  endure  than  the  learned  and  com- 
placent young  person,  didactic  and  anxious 
to  bestow  information ;  nor  do  I  wonder  in 
the  least  that  men  prefer  a  soft,  adorable, 
fluffy  little  fool.  But  middle  age  stares  every 
woman  in  the  face.  Kittenhood  is  bewitch- 
ing, but  old-cathood  is  a  very  different  mat- 
ter, and  I  maintain  that  in  middle  life  the 
most  tiresome  and  pedantic  of  intellectual 
women  is  preferable  to  those  fat,  flabby, 
bejeweled  creatures  one  so  frequently  sees 
dining  or  driving.  They  are  the  unprogres- 
sire,  overfed  wives  of  rich  men  and  they 
take  vast  thought  of  what  they  shall  eat 
and  what  they  shall  drink,  and  wherewithal 
they  shall  be  clothed.  They  cannot  talk,  they 
cannot  think,  there  are  only  two  things  they 
can  do — eat  and  drink,  and  spend  money. 
I  am  sure  that  one  tiny  thought  which  has 
a  premise  and  certain  conclusions  to  be  de- 
duced from  it  would  cause  inflammation  of 
the  brain. 

[229] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

"  You  men  are  so  fond  of  catch  phrases, 
and  attach  so  much  importance  to  them  " — 
Egeria  was  now  in  full  cry — "  that  when  I 
hear  you  talk  of  a  man's  ideal  being  *  the 
old  sweet,  womanly  woman  of  the  long 
ago,'  I  pine  to  drag  a  heroine  from  the 
pages  of  an  eighteenth-century  novel  and 
throw  her  on  your  hands  for  a  season.  She, 
with  her  pleasing  habits  of  bursting  into 
tears  or  fainting  on  every  occasion !  She, 
with  her  missish,  mawkish  sentimentality 
and  her  everlasting  '  sensibility  '  !  How  glad 
you  would  be  to  exchange  her  for  the  twen- 
tieth-century girl  with  her  splendid  health; 
the  girl  who  can  play  golf  or  tennis,  or 
ride  or  swim  with  him ;  who  can  listen  un- 
derstandingly  when  he  talks  of  the  events 
of  the  hour  or  of  his  business !  This  is  the 
era  of  companionship ;  for  the  first  time  men 
and  women  are  comrades." 

"H'm-m!"  sniffed  the  Judge.  "I  get 
very  tired  of  those  bright,  boyish  young 
women.  TLe  only  difference,  it  sometimes 
seems  to  me,  between  the  young  collegians 
of  both  sexes,  is  that  some  wear  trousers 
[230] 


THE  INTELLECTUAL  WOMAN 
and  some  wear  petticoats.  When  a  man  de- 
sires mental  stimulus  he  turns  to  his  own 
kind.  The  potent  spell  of  the  eternal  fem- 
inine, Madame  Egeria,  is  to  be  eternally 
feminine.  Like  does  not  attract  like.  The 
pine,  you  remember,  loved  the  palm — the 
graceful,  sensuous  Southern  palm.  The  in- 
structive woman,  who,  with  serene  compla- 
cency, has  taken  all  knowledge  for  her 
province,  should  have  a  millstone  tied  about 
her  neck  and  be  cast  into  the  depths  of  the 
sea.  A  woman's  initial  duty  is  to  please." 

"  But  not  to  try  to  please,"  averred 
Egeria,  sotto  voce. 

"What's  the  difference?"  asked  the 
Judge  obtusely. 

"  Great  heavens !  Don't  you  know  the  dif- 
ference between  the  woman  who  pleases  you 
without  trying  and  the  woman  who  tries 
without  pleasing  you  ?  " 

"  I  can  stand  any  type  of  woman  better 
than  the  unnaturally  sprightly  ones — the 
artificially  animated  ones  with  the  dull  eyes, 
you  know,  who  ask  you  if  you've  read  this 
book  or  that — all  the  books,  in  fact,  that 
[231  ] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

you've  never  heard  of ;  and  tell  funny  stories 
very  badly  indeed." 

"  Do  you  think  they  are  quite  as  hard  to 
bear  " — a  pensiveness  had  crept  into  Ege- 
ria's  tone — "  as  the  ones  who  murmur  on 
and  on,  '  And  I  was  quite  sure  that  Bobby 
— Bobby's  my  oldest  boy,  you  know — had 
fallen  downstairs  and  killed  himself,  so  I 
said  to  Mr.  Smith,  who  was  sitting  by  the 
fire  reading  the  evening  paper — no,  it  was 
Browning's  poems;  and  he  wasn't  by  the 
fire,  either;  he  was  sitting  near  the  window 
— and  I  said  to  him,  "  Do  you  know,  dear, 
I  believe  Bobby  has  fallen  down  stairs  and 
killed  himself."  And  he  said,  "  Why,  no 
darling,  I  do  not  think  so.  I'm  quite  sure 
I  heard  him  whistling  outside  just  a  moment 
ago."  And  I  said,  "  No  dear ;  I  think  you  are 
mistaken."  And  he  said,  "  No  Mary,  love, 
I'm  quite  positive  of  what  I'm  saying."  And 
I  said,  "  But  husband,  dearest,  I'm  as  sure  as 
I  can  be."  '  " 

The  Judge  was  grinding  his  teeth  hor- 
ribly. "  Oh,  please  stop !  "  he  begged.  "  I 
can't  bear  it.  I've  heard  them  purl  on  that 
[232] 


THE  INTELLECTUAL  WOMAN 
way  for  hours.  Do  not  recall  those  moments 
in  Hades." 

"  But  that  is  the  type  of  woman  you  par- 
ticularly admire."  Egeria  spoke  with  soft 
malice.  "  No  one  would  accuse  her  of  any 
intellectual  luggage,  no  matter  how  care- 
fully concealed." 

The  Judge  gazed  abstractedly  before  him. 
"  I  don't  believe,"  he  said  at  last,  doggedly 
and  daringly,  but  still  having  the  grace  to 
avert  his  eyes — "  I  don't  believe  that  you've 
got  anything  worth  being  called  an  intellect, 
and  I  think  you're  all  intuitively  and  sub- 
consciously aware  of  the  fact,  from  the  way 
you  parade  any  spurious  imitations  you  may 
possess." 

Egeria  sat  bolt  upright,  with  two  scar- 
let spots  blazing  on  her  cheeks.  "  Where 
are  Jove's  lightnings?"  she  cried  gazing 
eagerly  upward.  "  Why  don't  they  fall  and 
frizzle  you  to  a  smoking  cinder?  " 

•"  To  possess  an  intellect  presupposes  the 
logical  faculty.  Woman  is  never  logical." 

"  She  doesn't  have  to  be,"  asserted  Ege- 
ria,   triumphantly.     "  She    knows    a    trick 
[233] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

worth  two  of  that.  She  watches  man  go 
through  all  those  elaborate  mental  contor- 
tions of  which  he  is  so  fond,  and  which  he 
calls  '  logical  methods  of  reasoning  and  de- 
duction,' and  then  she  exclaims,  with  Emer- 
son, '  Why  all  these  painful  labors  ?  There 
is  a  better  way.'  Let  him  amuse  himself  with 
so  cumbersome  and  old-fashioned  a  vehicle 
if  he  wishes,  but  my  swift  intuitions  supply 
me  with  an  infallible  and  instantaneous  con- 
clusion." 

"  Infallible !  "  scoffed  the  Judge.  He  looked 
unutterable  things,  but  checked  his  rising 
speech.  "  Your  intellectual  woman  takes  her- 
self so  seriously  "  —  harking  back  to  his 
original  grievance. 

"  She  does,  rather,"  admitted  Egeria, 
with  the  generosity  of  one  who  feels  that 
he  has  scored.  "  She's  always  studying 
things  out  of  books,  when  Life  stands  at 
the  door  of  her  tent  and  offers  her  an 
interesting  panorama.  Love  points  to  his 
primrose  way.  Sorrow  beckons,  Joy  woos 
and  she  scowls  at  her :  *  Out  of  my  path, 
light  one.  I  have  no  time  to  heed  any  of 
[234] 


THE  INTELLECTUAL  WOMAN 
you,   or   to  pay  the  price   of  admission  to 
your   exhibits.    I   am   cultivating   my   intel- 
lect.' " 

"  You  mean  gathering  grapes  of  thorns 
and  figs  of  thistles,"  muttered  the  Judge. 

Egeria  ignored  him.  "  Really,"  she  con- 
tinued earnestly,  "  the  woman  who  poses  as 
purely  intellectual  and  prides  herself  upon 
the  fact  is  one  of  the  most  poverty-stricken 
creatures  upon  the  face  of  the  earth.  She 
has  absolutely  nothing  to  offer  and  she 
might  as  well  accept  the  fact  once  for  all. 
Let  her  exult  to  the  fullest  in  the  magnifi- 
cent and  thrilling  dash  woman  has  made  in 
her  race  for  the  golden  apples  of  a  broader 
mentality,  for  it  has  been  a  sprint  worthy 
of  a  goddess ;  but  nevertheless,  she  has  the 
shackling  ages  behind  her,  and  in  her  pres- 
ent stage  of  mental  development  there  is  no 
field  in  which  she  is  not  equaled  or  distanced 
by  man. 

"  She  virtually  admits  this  fact  when  she 
prates   of  woman's  work  and   erects  build- 
ings wherein  to  exhibit  it,  thus  differentiat- 
ing between  the  sexes.  The  mere  term  '  wom- 
[235] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

an's  work,'  when  applied  to  domestic  or 
artistic  production,  is  an  insult,  because  it 
embodies  a  shameless  and  whining  plea.  If 
the  work  of  woman's  hand  and  brain  cannot 
stand  on  its  own  merits  side  by  side  with 
the  craft  of  ideas  of  man,  then  in  the  name 
of  justice  let  it  fall.  If  it  does  not  stand 
the  test  of  impartial  criticism,  then  let 
woman  be  brave  enough  to  destroy  it  with 
her  own  hands  and  on  its  ruins  build  again 
with  a  confident  and  buoyant  spirit,  asking 
no  handicap  for  weights. 

"  To-day  when  the  twentieth  century 
beckons,  no  woman  can  afford  not  to  be  in- 
tellectual in  the  broadest  and  truest  mean- 
ing of  that  word.  She  must  be  eagerly  alert 
to  the  great  thoughts  and  energies  of  the 
hour  and  gladly  feed  her  seeking  brain  with 
life's  great  issues.  The  woman  who  limits 
herself  to  trivialities  and  frivolities  thus 
fancying  herself  truly  womanly  and  delight- 
fully feminine,  will  find  that  she  is  behind 
the  times ;  the  spirit  of  the  day  is  no  longer 
with  her. 

"  Why  confuse  terms,  and  regard  as  in- 
[236] 


THE  INTELLECTUAL  WOMAN 
tellectual  the  woman  who  has  a  capacity  for 
acquiring  facts  and  has  not  sufficient  mental 
assimilation  to  transmute  them  into  that 
'  indefinable  essence  of  acquirement  which  we 
call  culture '  ?  You  see,  she  forgets  that  '  no 
perfect  artist  was  created  yet,  of  an  imper- 
fect woman.' ' 

"  Was  a  perfect  artist  ever  created  of  any 
kind  of  a  woman?  Is  woman  ever  truly  an 
artist  in  the  higher  sense  ?  "  The  Judge  had 
the  bit  in  his  teeth  now.  "  When  she  achieves 
anything  in  art,  she  usually  does  so  in  a 
way  that  appears  in  curious  contradistinc- 
tion to  her  sex.  Her  work  when  it  exhibits 
any  power  at  all,  is  apt  to  be  oddly  virile 
and  unimaginative.  However,  I  must  except 
one  branch  of  art — women  are  great  ac- 
tresses ;  and  the  reason  is  that  they  are  never 
called  upon  to  speak  the  universal  voice. 
They  merely  express  themselves.  There  has 
never  been  a  woman  musician  of  the  highest 
rank.  Oh,  I  grant  you  there  are  a  few 
charming  ones ;  but  none  great.  Rosa  Bon- 
heur  was  a  great  woman  painter,  a  wonder- 
ful observer,  with  no  hint  of  that  mystic 
[237] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

vision  which  seems  a  part  of  the  gift  of  su- 
preme artists. 

"  As  novelists,  women  have  gone  far. 
George  Eliot  is  perhaps  the  most  notable  ex- 
ample. Fielding  outclasses  her." 

"  What  would  you  say  of  Mrs.  Brown- 
ing's '  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese  '  ?  " 
asked  Egeria,  coldly. 

"  The  final  dictum  will  probably  be  that 
they  are  the  most  artistic  thing  a  woman 
has  ever  accomplished,"  he  replied.  "  But 
stop  to  think  of  woman's  perversity."  The 
Judge  spoke  as  if  personally  injured. 
"  Women  have  chosen  to  excel  in  fields  where 
it  would  seem  there  was  no  possible  show  for 
them.  They  have  been  mighty  rulers,  diplo- 
mats and  politicians.  When  did  the  tradi- 
tional heart  of  woman  ever  interfere  with 
the  crafty  head  of  Elizabeth  of  England, 
Catherine  of  Russia,  the  present  Empress 
of  China?  Of  Catherine,  it  was  said  that  she 
combined  all  the  resources  of  the  implacable 
ruler,  the  trained  diplomat,  the  profound 
psychologist  and  the  woman  of  fascination. 
Elizabeth  was  almost  a  like  deadly  combina- 
[238] 


THE  INTELLECTUAL  WOMAN 

tion.  She  never  made  a  mistake  in  a  man, 
and  she  surrounded  herself  with  advisers 
who  could  make  herself  and  her  kingdom 
glorious.  Her  political  coquetries  still  hold 
lessons  for  diplomats. 

"  Women  may  be  eminent  in  mathematics, 
in  science.  They  have  shown,  and  do  show, 
signs  of  this  in  their  past  and  their  present 
mental  development;  but  if  the  signs  of  the 
past  and  the  present  mean  anything,  men 
will  continue  to  hold  the  laurel  in  art  against 
all  feminine  comers.  Your  sex,  Madame  Ege- 
ria,  will  give  to  the  world  echoes  of  the 
*  blue  tide's  low  susurrus  that  comes  up  to 
the  Ivory  Gate.'  But  will  women  ever  pass 
and  repass  through  those  shining  gates,  free 
citizens  of  the  world  of  dreams?  I  doubt  it. 
The  feminine  nature  lacks  something  of  the 
requisite  emotional  depth  and  range.  George 
Sand  could  never  have  loved  Chopin  as 
Chopin  loved  George  Sand." 

"  Pouf !  "  Egeria  snapped  her  fingers  in 
airy  scorn.  "  One  of  the  prime  amusements 
of  man,  ever  since  he  was  a  chattering  mon- 
key in  a  treetop,  has  been  to  harangue  on 
[239] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

the  destiny  of  woman  and  set  the  limits  to 
her  achievement.  He  constructs  a  neat  cage 
and  puts  her  within  it.  Then  he  exclaims 
admiringly :  *  Behold  the  caged  tiger ! '  And 
woman  paces  up  and  down  the  cage  until 
she  gets  tired  of  it;  then  she  lifts  her  paw, 
strikes  out  a  few  bars  and  walks  free.  Im- 
mediately man  sits  down  and  prophesies 
long  and  loud  of  the  horrible  things  that 
will  happen  to  her  and  to  the  race  if  she 
is  not  speedily  captured  and  thrust  back  into 
a  stronger  cage  of  his  devising.  You  amuse 
me  " — walking  away  a  few  paces — "  but  you 
fail  to  convince." 

"  You  remember  George  Meredith's 
words,"  said  the  Judge,  "  that  '  woman  is 
the  last  creature  man  shall  civilize.' ' 

Egeria  stopped  short,  turned  squarely 
and  faced  him.  "  Why  are  you  in  such  a 
horrid,  argumentative  mood  to-night?  You 
ought  to  be  in  the  most  joyous  spirits.  Your 
bete  noir" — a  touch  of  acrimony  in  her 
tones — "  our  charming  Poet  has  gone." 

The  Judge  scornfully  curled  his  lip. 
"  Our  charming  Poet !  "  he  muttered.  "  Of- 
[240] 


THE  INTELLECTUAL  WOMAN 

f ensive  young  ass !  Posing  about  here,  self- 
sufficient,  conceited,  bumptious." 

"  Just  stop."  The  words  were  stern ;  but 
there  was  a  hint  of  laughter  in  Egeria's 
tones.  "  You  cannot  talk  to  me  thus  about 
the  Poet." 

"  He  bewitched  you  women,"  asserted  the 
Judge  gloomily.  "  For — for  the  Bishop's 
sake,  and  for  her  own," — generously — "  I 
feared  for  Castilia.  She  is  young  and  im- 
pressionable, and  he  was  always  about  with 
his  poems  and  his  eyes  and  his  airs  and  his 

talk "  The  Judge  struck  a  match  to 

light  his  cigar  so  vigorously  that  the  end 
flew  off. 

"  But  he's  gone  now,"  put  in  Egeria  con- 
solingly. "  *  On  the  other  side  the  world  he's 
overdue.' ' 

"  Yes,"  still  gloomily,  "  but  I  notice  that 
about  fifty  more  have  sprung  up.  I  left 
Castilia  surrounded  by  more  callow,  cack- 
ling youths  than  I  cared  to  count."  He 
leaned  on  the  low  stone  wall  enclosing  the 
garden  and  blew  rings  of  smoke  at  the  moon. 

"  Castilia,"  remarked  his  companion, 
[241  ] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

"  like  any  other  pretty  and  high  -  spirited 
girl  is  fond  of  admiration;  but,"  a  little 
sadly,  "  the  Poet's  eyes  and  verses  never 
made  the  least  impression  on  her,  any  more 
than  " — with  a  wave  of  the  hand — "  those 
callow  and  cackling  youths  to  whose  mercies 
you  have  abandoned  her  are  making." 

He  looked  closely  at  her. 

"  Castilia,"  she  continued,  "  is  intensely 
practical.  Castilia  is  ambitious.  Castilia 
loves  pomp  and  circumstance  and  luxury  and 
beauty." 

"  I  have  never  noticed  any  evidence  of 
those  traits,"  he  answered  quickly  with  a 
touch  of  ice  in  his  tones.  "  You  are  making 
her  hard  and  cold  and  scheming." 

"  Not  at  all,"  quite  unmoved.  "  I  am 
merely  analyzing  her  type.  Castilia  can  love 
warmly  and  truly ;  but  only  a  man  of  dis- 
tinction, of  achievement,  a  man  who  has  won 
the  world's  prizes  and  whom  the  world  re- 
gards with  envy,  with  admiration,  with  a 
touch  of  awe." 

"  Egeria,"  he  sent  one  smoke  wreath  after 
another    floating     skyward,     "  Do     you — " 
[242] 


THE  INTELLECTUAL  WOMAN 

There  was  real  emotion  in  his  strong  voice, 

"  Do  you " 

"  Yes,"  she  laid  one  hand  lightly  on  his 
arm  and  raised  her  laughing  eyes  to  his. 
"  Yes,  I  do.  Go  in  and  win,  Judge.  You 
will  find  the  citadel  already  conquered.  It 
only  awaits  the  opportunity  to  capitulate 
gracefully." 


[243] 


THE    ART    OF   GIVING 


"A  gift  is  as  a  precious  stone  in  the  eyes  of  him  that 
hath  it;  whithersoever  it  turneth,  it  prospereth." 

PROVERBS. 

"Two  things  greater  than  all  things  are, 
The  first  is  Love  and  the  second  War. 
And  since  we  know  not  how  war  may  prove, 
Heart  of  my  heart,  let  us  talk  of  love." 

KIPLING. 


CHAPTER    TWELVE 
THE  ART  OF  GIVING 

THE  world  outside  was  white  with 
whirling  snowflakes  when  the  Finan- 
cier sent  his  motor  car  spinning  through 
Egeria's  gates ;  but  once  in  her  library,  he 
assured  her  that  she  had  succeeded  in  creat- 
ing an  excellent  illusion  of  the  vanished  sum- 
mer. 

"  Is  it  a  mirage,"  he  asked,  halting  on  the 
threshold,  "  or  are  we  back  in  your  garden ; 
and  is  it  June  again  ?  " 

"  You  are  the  magician,  not  I,"  she 
laughed,  casting  aside  her  book  and  rising 
slowly  from  her  huge  chair.  "  You  waved 
your  magic  wand,  and  presto,  my  home  is 
a  rose  garden !  "  She  laid  her  cheek  lovingly 
against  a  great  cluster  of  pale  yellow  roses 
in  a  tall  vase.  "  Where  did  you  find  them, 
Financier?  Not  in  a  florist's  shop.  They  do 
not  belong  there." 

[247] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

"  They  are  where  they  belong  now,"  he 
informed  her. 

She  smiled  in  appreciation.  "  I  always 
dream  of  them  thus, 

'  In  a  waste  garden, 
Through  the  night's  noon, 
Pale  roses  dreamily 
Sway  'neath  the  moon.' 

But  I  quote  poetry,  and  you  are  freezing." 
She  motioned  him  to  an  easy  chair  drawn 
close  to  the  birch-log  fire;  the  pale  lambent 
flame,  once  compared  to  young  love,  lighted 
up  the  growing  shadows  of  the  library. 
Without,  the  thick  fine  snow  fell  more 
densely  than  ever  and  the  December  wind 
wailed  through  the  branches  of  the  leafless 
trees. 

Egeria  rang  for  tea. 

"  And  this  is  the  glad  Christmas-tide," 
said  the  Financier,  in  the  interval  before  it 
was  brought,  and  Egeria  detected  a  note  of 
dreariness  in  his  voice — "  the  season  when 
we  are  condemned  to  *  the  fashion  of  a  smil- 
ing face.' ' 

[248] 


THE  ART  OF  GIVING 

"  Did  you  ever  realize  the  power  of  a 
phrase  ?  "  asked  Egeria  with  apparent  ir- 
relevance while  she  brewed  the  tea.  "  We  put 
our  faith  in  shibboleths,  we  are  mesmerized 
by  sounds." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know ;  *  a  rose — '  "  began 
the  Financier,  tritely. 

"  It  would  not,"  Egeria  interrupted,  in 
positive  tones.  "  The  very  word  '  rose  '  sug- 
gests *  splendid  summer.'  It  glorifies,  invests 
with  sentiment,  color  and  beauty,  even  the 
most  abortive  and  scrubby  specimens." 

The  Financier  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"  You  overwhelm  me  with  words,  if  not  with 
the  weight  of  your  argument,"  he  said 
with  extreme  gentleness.  Then  hastily,  as 
Egeria  opened  her  mouth  to  speak :  "  What 
do  you  mean  by  the  hypnotism  of  sounds?  " 

"  It  is  not  a  theory ;  it  is  a  recognized 
fact,"  she  replied.  "  Have  you  never  known 
it?  Therein  lies  the  secret  of  oratory — a 
little  idea  borrowed  from  nature.  Who  can 
listen  to  the  musical  plashing  of  fountains 
and  not  become  soothed  and  harmonized? 
Why,  no  sound  has  ever  enamored  the  ear 
[249] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

of  man  like  the  cadence  of  '  calm  waters 
murmuring,  murmuring  to  meet  the  mighty 
sea.'  It  taught  him  music  and  poetry.  It 
trained  his  eye  to  lines  of  grace  and  sym- 
metry. The  flush  of  dawn  upon  the  snow- 
tipped  mountains,  roses  that  wreathe  the 
house  of  life,  the  living  sparkle  of  leaping 
waters — these  are  the  metaphors  by  which 
he  has  striven  to  express  his  conception  of 
eternal,  unseen  beauty;  but  it  is  the  foun- 
tain which  has  made  the  strongest  appeal  to 
his  imagination.  Through  the  songs  and 
traditions  which  have  come  down  to  us  we 
hear  the  music  of  its  plashing  spray.  Then 
who  can  listen  to  the  drowsy  hum  of  bees 
and  not  feel  a  delicious  languor  stealing 
over  him?  Whose  spirit  is  not  stirred  and 
quickened  by  the  rousing,  scarlet  blare  of 
the  trumpet? 

"  You,  yourself  as  a  *  plain  business  man,' 
are  a  rather  commonplace  person — a  little 
below  the  salt,  so  to  speak;  but  when  men- 
tioned as  *  a  financier,'  a  *  captain  of  indus- 
try,' a  *  coal  baron,'  a  railroad  or  an  oil 
*  king,'  you  grow  to  the  stature  of  the 
[250] 


THE  ART  OF  GIVING 

phrase,  and  are  viewed  as  one  of  the  *  lords 
of  life.'  " 

The  Financier's  smile  was  faintly  bitter. 
"  But,"  he  argued,  "  all  this  has  nothing  to 
do  with  Christmas  and  its  attendant  respon- 
sibilities— the  giving  of  gifts  and  the  neces- 
sity of  the  smiling  face." 

"  Why,  Christmas  was  what  we  were  talk- 
ing about,"  contended  Egeria. 

The  Financier  ceased  his  abstracted  pok- 
ing of  a  log  in  order  to  make  the  sparks 
fly  upward.  "  We  were,"  he  said  with  pain- 
ful distinctness,  "  discussing  the  hypnotism 
of  sounds." 

"  Oh,  that  was  merely  a  slight  divagation 
about  Robin  Hood's  barn,"  declared  Egeria 
unabashed.  "  Take  that  very  word,  *  Christ- 
mas ' ;  what  pictures  does  it  suggest  to  the 
mind?  " 

The  Financier  reflected  a  moment. 
"  Christmas  card  effects,"  he  said  at  last. 
"  Dark,  pointed  firs ;  rosy  lights  from 
church  windows  streaming  across  the  snow; 
great  halls  full  of  holly  and  mistletoe  and 
glowing  Yule  logs ;  everywhere  feasting  and 
[251] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

laughter,  giving  and  receiving,  and  a  per- 
meating atmosphere  of  glee,  the  spirit  of 
Christmas  jollity." 

"  That  is  the  picture ;  how  different  is  the 
reality.  You  wonder  why  it  is  that  everyone 
seems  happy,  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  the 
season,  while  you  are  striving  to  conceal  the 
fact  that  you  feel  yourself  an  alien  and  an 
intruder,  rather  forlorn  and  desolate  under 
your  mask  of  merriment." 

"  That  sounds  very  much  as  if  you  might 
be  the  financier  of  fiction,"  said  Egeria.  "  If 
so,  cheer  up,  for  this  year  you  will  enjoy 
Christmas  as  never  before.  At  the  eleventh 
hour  your  miserlike  heart  will  be  unexpect- 
edly softened,  and  you  will  give  your  poor 
clerks  to  whom  you  should  have  paid  higher 
wages  all  year,  a  few  extra  dollars  and  their 
surprise  will  be  so  overwhelming  that  they 
will  be  exuberantly  grateful.  This  will  be  the 
beginning  of  your  regeneration.  Then  you 
will  stroll  about  the  streets,  still  feeling 
somewhat  sad  and  lonely,  until  presently  you 
will  meet  two  wan,  angel-faced  children,  a 
boy  and  a  girl,  gazing  wistfully  in  the  win- 
[252] 


THE  ART  OF  GIVING 

dows  of  a  toy  shop.  Attracted  in  spite  of 
yourself,  you  will  draw  near  and  learn  from 
their  innocent  prattle  that  they  are  the  off- 
spring of  a  tenderly  loved  and  long-lost 
sister.  You  will  follow  them  to  their  tene- 
ment home,  where,  in  a  freezing  cold  but 
exquisitely  clean  room,  you  will  find  your 
sister  dying  of  pneumonia.  The  next  day  in 
the  same  room,  now  transformed  and  beau- 
tified with  Christmas  greens  and  handsome 
presents,  your  sister  restored  to  health  and 
the  little  ones  dancing  about  in  glee,  you  eat 
your  Christmas  pudding." 

"  Alas,  I  shall  not — being  a  '  financier,' 
as  you  are  pleased  to  call  me,  of  fact  and 
not  of  fiction.  To-morrow,  I  shall,  instead, 
struggle  through  the  crowded  streets,  cudge- 
ling afresh  my  already  sorely  cudgeled 
brains.  Man  is  a  stupid,  blundering  creature, 
who  looks  with  admiration  at  woman — wom- 
an who  seems  to  possess  a  kind  of  sixth  sense 
in  the  selection  of  what  is  graceful,  appro- 
priate and  charming  at  this  time  of  remem- 
brance and  gifts." 

Egeria  laughed.  "  Shall  I  tell  you  what 
[253] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

you  will  really  do,  O  Financier  of  fact  and 
not  of  fiction?  You  will  order  a  few  bales 
of  flowers,  a  few  tons  of  candy,  some  books, 
some  gloves,  perhaps  some  lace  and  jewels; 
and  you  will  receive  a  gross  or  so  of  hand- 
kerchief and  necktie  cases,  all  abominably 
scented.  Ah-h!  The  very  thought  of  the 
presents  you  will  get  from  women  makes 
me  sneeze,  they  will  be  so  overpoweringly 
redolent  of  sachet  powder ! " 

The  Financier  flushed.  "  It  is  a  matter  of 
sentiment,  not  of  barter,"  he  said,  stiffly. 

"  Assuredly,"  agreed  Egeria  equably, 
"  but  it  has  nearly  become  commercialized. 
It  is  our  little  human  way  of  transmuting 
the  ideal  into  the  real,  the  sentimental  into 
the  practical.  They  are  apt  to  become 
sordid  and  common  and  unclean  in  the 
process." 

"  I  wonder,"  mused  he,  "  if  all  this  gift- 
bestowing,  this  setting  aside  of  an  especial 
season  for  it,  is  not  a  mere  excuse  for  that 
instinctive  longing  to  give  which  lies  in 
every  heart?  " 

"  '  The  sea  gives  her  shells  to  the  shingle, 
[254] 


THE  ART  OF  GIVING 

the  earth  gives  her   streams  to  the  sea,' ': 
murmured  Egeria. 

"  Apparently  a  feminine  instinct."  He 
continued  to  follow  his  train  of  thought. 
"  The  sea  gives  her  shells,  the  earth  gives 
her  streams.  Nature,  who  is  she,  is  a  boun- 
teous giver." 

"  Nature  does  not  exhibit  any  particu- 
larly feminine  attributes,"  argued  Egeria. 
"  She  has  no  taste  for  bargains,  and  she 
saves  nothing  for  the  future;  lays  nothing 
aside  for  a  rainy  day.  There  is  not  a  trace 
of  the  prudent  housewife  about  her.  Look 
how  she  wastes  herself  in  the  Spring!  She 
throws  out  banners  of  leaves  and  festoons 
of  vines,  and  spills  myriads  of  flowers.  Then, 
her  big  tasks  accomplished,  she  amuses  her- 
self with  the  most  infinite  and  intricate  de- 
tail. Every  bare  spot  of  ground,  every  fallen 
log,  must  be  covered  with  lichens  and  moss 
and  the  lace  of  ferns.  You  do  not  find  her 
saving  anything  over  to  help  piece  out  her 
autumn  splendors.  She  merely  evolves  new 
harmonies  and  subtleties  of  color,  then  scat- 
ters her  gold  and  scarlet  upon  the  wind  in- 
[255] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

different  that  the  frost  strips  her  fields  and 
meadows.  The  cash  and  the  credit  may  go 
together.  She  gives  '  her  cloak  also,'  and 
stands  bare  and  shivering  in  the  blast. 

"  Poor,  reckless  prodigal !  Splendid  refu- 
tation of  the  belief  that  another  may  filch 
from  us  anything  that  is  ours!  And  sud- 
denly, in  an  unexpected  hour,  we  see  her 
remote  and  dazzling,  more  royal  than  ever 
in  the  ermine  of  snow,  the  jewels  of  ice!  " 

"  Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  your  somewhat 
florid  eloquence,  I  claim  that  the  art  of  giv- 
ing— the  most  difficult  and  delicate  art  in 
the  world,  we  agreed — lies  with  your  sex." 
The  Financier  could  be  obstinate. 

"  No  " — Egeria  shook  her  head ;  "  you 
are  mistaken.  Men  are  the  givers  of  gifts, 
the  '  great,  glorious  spendthrifts '  of  the 
world.  Oh !  " — impatiently,  as  the  Financier 
laughed — "  I  am  not  speaking  of  money 
alone,  but  of  ideas.  It  is  naturally  so.  Wom- 
an has  sat  for  centuries  in  her  walled  cham- 
ber, spinning  and  sighing,  occasionally  far- 
ing out  to  barter  some  eggs  and  pats  of 
butter  for  sugar  and  tea  at  the  corner  gro- 
[256] 


THE  ART  OF  GIVING 

eery,  or  whatever  the  existing  prototype  of 
the  corner  grocery  has  been,  while  man  has 
roamed  the  world,  *  killing  much  and  rob- 
bing more,'  looting  at  his  will  the  treasures 
of  a  church,  a  city  or  an  empire.  He  soon 
discovered  that  the  earth  and  the  fullness 
thereof  were  his  for  the  taking;  thus  he 
cultivated  his  taste  for  art.  He  also  discov- 
ered that,  since  pillaging  was  easy,  giving 
was  delightful.  History  proves  my  conten- 
tion. Look  at  the  Medicis.  The  love  of  beau- 
tiful things  and  the  passion  for  their  ac- 
quisition were  an  inheritance  of  their  blood, 
but  only  along  the  male  line.  The  Medici 
women  preferred  the  lighter  diversions  of 
intrigue,  poisoning  and  politics. 

"  Why,  the  voice  of  woman,  the  query  of 
the  Eternal  Feminine  is :  *  What  can  I  give 
to  thee,  O  liberal  and  princely  giver  '  ?  And 
she  makes  her  own  answer  from  the  depths 
of  her  own  heart: 

'Can  it  be  right  to  give  what  I  can  give? 
To  let  thee  sit  beneath  the  fall  of  tears 
As  salt  as  mine?  ' 

[257] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

"  A  man  may  give  to  the  woman  he  loves 
anything  from  a  *  kingdom  to  rose  leaves  ' ; 
but  her  choice  of  what  to  give  to  him  is 
more  restricted.  Emerson  recognized  that 
when  he  urged  the  farmer  to  give  his  corn, 
the  shepherd  to  give  his  lamb,  the  poet  his 
poem,  etc.  But  what  is  left  for  the  woman 
to  give?  '  The  girl  a  handkerchief  of  her 
own  sewing  ' — or,"  added  Egeria  mischiev- 
ously, "  a  mouchoir  or  necktie  case,  heavily 
scented — or — herself." 

An  irritated  frown  gathered  on  the  Fi- 
nancier's brow.  "  If  my  friend  has  thought 
of  me,  it  is  sufficient.  It  makes  little  dif- 
ference what  outward  symbol  the  thought 
takes,"  he  said  reprovingly. 

"  Oh,  but  it  does !  "  insisted  Egeria.  "  The 
symbol  should  show  the  right  kind  of  a 
thought.  Suppose  you  send  me  a  sheaf  of 
rare  orchids  of  a  fabulous  price.  There  is 
the  expression  of  a  thought ;  but  I  view  it 
as  a  perfunctory  recognition  of  a  social  ob- 
ligation. You  have  forgotten  my  often- 
expressed  love  for  my  golden-hearted,  pale 
roses.  You  have  given  me  nothing;  rather 
[258] 


THE  ART  OF  GIVING 

have  you  taken  something  from  me.  I  am 
chilled;  I  discover  suddenly  that  we  are 
strangers.  But  look  at  the  matter  from  an- 
other point  of  view.  You  send  me  as  a  gift 
some  horror.  What  difference  if  it  is  hid- 
eously ugly  and  strikingly  inappropriate? 
It  is  an  expression  of  your  goodwill  and 
your  thought  of  me.  Shall  I  banish  it?  Nev- 
er, although  it  is  a  note  of  discord,  disturb- 
ing the  harmony  of  my  surroundings.  It 
becomes,  instead,  a  cherished  possession." 

"  After  all,"  murmured  the  Financier, 
"  the  best  gifts — I  had  almost  said  '  the  only 
gifts  ' — are  those  which  come  like  love  and 
Dian's  kiss,  unasked,  unsought.  Into  their 
bestowal  no  questions  of  barter  ever  enter. 
They  cannot  be  purchased;  they  must  be 
given." 

"  It  is  a  delightful  thought,  although  it 
must  occasionally  be  a  mournful  one  to  you, 
Financier,  that  there  are  things  which  no 
money  can  buy." 

"  I  wonder  if  you  know  what  they  are  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Some  of  them.  Last  night  I  went  to  a 
[259] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

gorgeous  dinner.  The  lights  and  the  flowers 
were  beautiful,  the  food  delicious,  and  the 
faces  of  the  people  about  the  board  were  as 
empty  and  vapid  and  unimaginative  as  their 
lives  or  their  conversation.  Suddenly,  above 
the  music  of  the  stringed  instruments,  I 
heard  the  wild,  sweet  notes  of  the  *  bird  of 
time.'  Did  you  ever  hear  it,  Financier?  " 

The  Financier  nodded  his  head. 

"  Well,  he  called  me  more  and  more  in- 
sistently, until  at  last  I  slipped  away,  un- 
noticed, out  into  the  garden.  The  soft,  mys- 
terious snow  was  changing  the  face  of  the 
world,  and  the  wind,  not  cold  nor  piercing, 
but  balmy  and  sweet  with  strange  fra- 
grances, wooed  me  on  and  on.  At  last  I  stood 
in  a  great  white  waste,  as  remote  as  the 
heart  of  a  limitless  desert,  although  it  was 
only  a  walled  garden,  and  for  a  moment — 
or  was  it  centuries? — I  seemed  to  stand  face 
to  face  with  the  soul  of  things.  I  felt  as 
if  I  had  coma  to  the  wilderness,  come  as  must 
everyone  who  lives,  in  the  endeavor  to  dis- 
cover the  real  things — the  things  that  all 
your  money  cannot  buy,  Financier ! " 
[260] 


THE  ART  OF  GIVING 

"  What  did  you  find  they  were? n  he 
asked  and  his  voice  was  very  low. 

"  Love  and  laughter,  sacrifice  and  sym- 
pathy, work  and  dreams !  " 

"  May  I  give  you  '  a  kingdom  and  rose 
leaves  '  for  a  Christmas  remembrance,  Ege- 
ria?  You  know  you  said,  a  man  might  give 
those  to  the  woman  he  loved." 

He  leaned  eagerly  forward.  His  face  had 
grown  pale.  There  was  a  shadow  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  have  tried  so  often  to  ask  you  and 
you  have  always  exerted  all  your  tact,  your 
social  skill,  in  gracefully,  gently,  kindly, 
cruelly  putting  me  off." 

"  The  world  says,'*  she  spoke  involun- 
tarily, "  that  I  have  exerted  all  my  skill, 
all  my  reputed  powers  of  finesse  in  grace- 
fully, gently  leading  you  on." 

He  dismissed  the  world's  judgment  with  a 
scornful  curl  of  the  lip,  a  disdainful  wave 
of  the  hand.  "  Then  you  will  take  the  poor 
all  that  I  offer,"  he  pleaded. 

"  The  kingdom  and  the  rose  leaves  ?  They 
are  great  possessions  and  I  do  not  under- 
value them." — gravely — "  But,"  with  a  des- 
[261] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

perate  attempt  to  retrieve  the  situation, 
"  you  see  I  have  taken  the  rose  leaves.  Ah, 
be  content  with  that,  Financier."  It  was  she 
who  appealed  now. 

"  If  you  will  take  my  heart  also." 

"  Ah,  Financier,  the  kingdom  is  too  splen- 
did for  me,  the  estates  too  vast.  Bestow  in- 
stead some  little  gift  that  I  could  accept  and 
for  which  I  could  make  adequate  return.  '  O 
liberal  and  princely  giver,'  let  it  be  a  book, 
a  flower,  even  a  jewel  for  remembrance  sake; 
but  not  the  kingdom." 

"  What  is  a  beggarly  kingdom  beside 
what  you  could  give?  "  he  cried  impatiently. 
"  Ah,  Egeria,  have  you  nothing  for  me  that 
money  cannot  buy  ?  " 

"  Many  things,  dear  Financier ;  my  ad- 
miration, my  real  affection.' 

"  But  not  your  love?  " 

"  No,"  her  voice  was  subdued,  almost  in- 
audible. 

For   a  few  moments   he  gazed  in   silence 
at  the  leaping  flames  of  the  birch  logs,  then 
he  gathered  the  petals  from  one  of  the  heavy- 
headed  roses  in  a  jar,  and  left  her. 
[262] 


EGERIA'S   SECRET 


"Would  you  that  spangle  of  Existence  spend 
About  the  secret — quick  about  it,  Friend." 

OMAR. 


CONCLUSION 

IT  was  Castilia's  wedding  morning  and  al- 
most the  first  day  of  Spring.  The  sky 
was  a  soft,  clear  blue,  the  trees  were  all  a 
tender  mist,  the  gray-green  mist  of  young 
Spring-tide,  the  wind  blew  from  the  South; 
the  peach  orchards  were  great  blurs  of  rose 
across  the  brown  fields.  Motor  cars  and  car- 
riages lined  the  road  before  the  church ;  har- 
ness glittered  and  horses  pranced;  motors 
puffed  and  whirred,  and  mechanicians  and 
coachmen  gossiped  in  groups. 

Within  the  church,  rainbow-hued  women 
and  well-dressed  men;  joyous  bursts  of  mu- 
sic, the  fragrance  of  hot-house  lilacs  and 
daffodils  and  narcissi,  and  finally,  Castilia 
herself,  radiant  as  the  morning,  stepping 
across  the  sunlit  threshold. 

At  the  wedding  breakfast  the  Judge  and 
the  Bishop  both  surpassed  themselves  in  ap- 
[265] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

propriate  speeches;  and  after  the  bride  and 
the  bridegroom  had  departed,  Egeria,  who 
had  carried  the  success  of  the  day  upon  her 
shoulders,  sought  the  conservatory  for  a 
few  moments  of  rest  and  quiet. 

Delighted  at  finding  it  untenanted,  she 
sat  down  with  a  rather  tired  sigh  and  gazed 
slowly  about  her,  letting  the  peace,  the 
absolute  quiet  of  the  place  steal  like  balm 
into  her  consciousness.  The  subdued  light 
fell  softly  through  shaded  glass ;  tall  palms 
concealed  the  encircling  walls  and  gave 
the  effect  of  distance;  about  the  edge  of 
the  moveless  pool  grew  the  vividly  green 
pitcher  plants,  and  from  high-hung  baskets 
swayed  the  gorgeous,  exotic  blooms  of  many 
orchids.  The  hot,  moist  air  was  permeated 
with  strange  fragrances ;  and  Egeria,  her 
soul  penetrated  by  this  beauty,  was  awed 
by  the  wonder  of  it.  She  had  left  behind  her 
the  vibrant  world  of  human  activity,  and 
had  entered  into  the  still  world  of  veg- 
etation; another  plane  of  being,  the  silent, 
unfolding  life  of  plants  which  eternally  ex- 
press their  types  within  the  canons  of  im- 
[266] 


EGERIA'S  SECRET 

mutable  law  nor  know  the  perplexing  free- 
dom of  the  sentient. 

"Am  I  interrupting  a  reverie?" — she 
had  not  heard  the  Bishop  enter — "  or  may 
I  rest  a  bit  beside  you  ?  " 

"  Indeed  you  may,"  making  room  for  him 
on  the  rustic  seat,  the  palm  leaves  spreading 
above  their  heads.  "  It  all  went  beautifully, 
did  it  not?" 

The  Bishop  smiled  and  sighed.  "  Dear 
Egeria,  I  wonder  how  much  of  this  happi- 
ness we  owe  to  you." 

"  All  of  it,  so  the  world  says.  Don't  you 
know  that  everyone  is  whispering  that  I  ar- 
ranged this — mercenary  marriage  ?  "  She 
looked  at  him  in  humorous  deprecation,  and 
after  a  moment,  they  both  broke  into  peals 
of  laughter. 

Then  something  like  a  tear  blinked  in  the 
Bishop's  eye.  "  The  Commonplace  Man  has 
agreed  to  stay  a  few  days  with  me ;  but  even 
then  it  will  be  lonely  without  her,  will  it  not, 
Egeria?" 

"  Not  a  bit,"  she  confidently  assured  him. 
"  Think  how  busy  you  will  be ;  how  much 
[267] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

work  you  have  to  do.  Humph!  The  selfish- 
ness of  your  complaining  of  being  lonely  to 
anyone  so  absolutely  bereft  as  myself !  " 

"  You ! "  he  turned  to  her  with  surprise 
and  a  real  concern  in  his  glance. 

"  Yes,  I !  *  One  after  one  they  left  me,  the 
sweet  birds  out  of  the  nest.'  First  the  Poet," 
counting  on  the  fingers  of  her  uplifted  hand. 

The  Bishop  pursed  his  mouth,  "  I  was 
pained  to  have  to  alter  my  opinion  of  him. 
I  fear  that  he  is  a  most  forward  and  pre- 
sumptuous young  man." 

" '  You  too,  Brutus;J "  reproachfully. 
"  Ah  well,  my  poor  Poet !  I  appreciate  you, 
and  some  day  the  world  will  appreciate  you 
also!  But  to  go  on  with  my  sorrows.  Next," 
still  counting  on  her  fingers,  "  The  Judge. 
You  may  happen  to  know  how  he  escaped." 

"  I  may  have  heard,  although  for  the  mo- 
ment it  eludes  my  memory."  The  Bishop  was 
delighted  with  his  wit. 

"  Then,"  a  third  finger  raised,  "  The  Edi- 
tor is  sulking  because  he  believes  that  I  am 
responsible  for  Castilia's  heartless  marriage. 
Like  most  cynics,  he  is  an  egregious  senti- 
[268] 


EGERIA'S  SECRET 

mentalist.  And  then —  "  holding  up  a  fourth 
finger —  She  stopped  suddenly. 

"  The  Financier,"  concluded  the  Bishop 
calmly.  "  I  was  grieved  when  he  endeavored 
to  explain  that  he  could  not  be  with  us  to- 
day. No  doubt,  I  showed  my  regret  and  a 
touch  of  offense,  for,"  with  a  keen  glance 
at  her,  "  he  was  somewhat  frank  in  giving 
his  reasons  for  not  wishing  to  come." 

"  That's  the  bother  of  him,"  impatiently 
shaking  some  grains  of  rice  from  her  white 
lace  gown,  "  why  cannot  he  be  the  imper- 
turbable, impassive,  inhumanly  silent  Finan- 
cier of  fiction,  instead  of  being  fervid  and 
impassioned  and  expansive  and  telling  peo- 
ple things  he  should  not.  It  is  out  of  char- 
acter." 

"  He  is  a  fine  fellow,"  said  the  Bishop  with 
enthusiasm.  "  A  really  big  man,  as  the  cur- 
rent phrase  goes.  A  man  who,  properly  un- 
derstood and  appreciated  and  possessing 
the  sympathy  and  affection  he  craves,  might 
become  a  great  force  for  good." 

"  Exactly,"  Egeria  was  all  courteous  in- 
difference. 

[269] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

"  Ah,  Egeria,"  dropping  the  foils  and 
sighing  a  little,  "  You  could  have  realized 
your  most  soaring  and  opulent  dreams." 

"  Bishop,  Bishop,  you  cannot  deceive  me. 
You  have  been  building  all  kinds  of  air 
castles  with  me  as  the  architect — hospitals, 
schools,  day  nurseries,  play-grounds " 

"  They  are  sorely  needed  and  so  hard  to 
get."  His  tone  was  a  confession. 

"  Bishop,  by  the  exercise  of  tremendous 
craft,  you  have  managed  to  get  yourself  re- 
garded as  a  mild-mannered,  foolishly  charit- 
able, easily  imposed  upon  person;  but  you 
can't  fool  all  the  people  all  the  time,  and  I 
know  you  for  a  wily  old  diplomat.  Now 
you  are  playing  a  very  poor  game  indeed, 
if  you  cannot  induce  him  to  give  a  few  hos- 
pitals and  churches  as — as  a  thank  offer- 
ing." 

"  Egeria !  You  deserve  to  be  shaken." 

"  But  Bishop,"  with  a  sudden  appeal  in 
her  voice,  "  don't  you  care  more  for  my  hap- 
piness than  even  a  cathedral?  Am  I  not  more 
than  many  sparrows  ?  " 

"  Dear  child,  avaricious  as  I  am  for  the 
[270] 


EGERIA'S  SECRET 

hospitals,  they  wouldn't   count  beside  your 
happiness." 

"  My  happiness ! "  she  echoed  dreamily, 
her  eyes  on  the  dim,  green  pool.  "  I  was 
happy  once,  for  a  year  or  two.  I  was  twenty 
and  he  was  twenty-one.  An  apple-blossom 
season.  And  after  his  death,  you  helped  me 
to  hear  the  sorrow  which  has  long  been  as 
a  dream  to  me.  And  for  many  years  I  have 
been  content. 

'  Life  is  good  and  life  is  gay, 
I  have  trod  the  primrose  way.'  " 

"  Because  you  would  resolutely  see  it  so," 
he  answered. 

"  Dear  Bishop,  you  have  helped  me  much." 
"  Dear  Egeria,  you  have  helped  me  more." 

The  Commonplace  Man  walked  home  with 
Egeria,  the  Bishop  standing  in  the  door  and 
waving  farewell  to  them.  It  was  sunset,  and 
in  the  last  rays  the  wheat  fields  looked 
vividly  green,  the  brown,  freshly-plowed 
earth  stretching  away  in  long  furrows  be- 
side them.  The  river  free  from  ice,  rippled 
and  sparkled  in  the  reflected  glow  from  the 
[271] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

sky.  Three,  dark,  slender  fir  trees  stood  out 
sharply  against  that  background  of  pale 
gold  and  an  arrowy  flight  of  birds  wheeled 
across  it. 

As  usual,  Egeria's  exclamations  of  pleasure 
were  punctuated  by  the  Commonplace  Man's 
sympathetic  and  understanding  silence. 

"  Well,"  she  finally  remarked,  returning 
contentedly  to  the  mundane,  "  it  was  grati- 
fying to  see  the  Judge,  for  once  in  his  life, 
take  a  back  seat.  Castilia  carried  off  all  the 
honors.  She  was  the  supreme  object  of  in- 
terest." 

He  shook  his  head.  "  Hard  as  it  would 
have  seemed  to  Castilia,  if  she  had  known 
it,  she  divided  the  honors  with  you." 

"  With  me !  Nonsense !  What  on  earth  do 
you  mean  ?  " 

"  For  one  thing,  you  looked  more  beauti- 
ful than  you  ever  did  in  your  life,  and  for 
another,  everyone  was  telling  everyone  else 
that  you  really  were  not  going  to  marry  the 
Financier." 

She  looked  slightly  embarrassed. 

"Is  it  true,  Egeria?" 
[272] 


EGERIA'S  SECRET 

She  nodded. 

He  took  her  hand  as  they  passed  through 
the  little  gate  into  her  garden  and  held  it 
firmly  as  they  walked  side  by  side  up  the 
path. 

"  Come  this  way,"  she  said,  "  I  want  to 
show  you  my  first  flowers."  She  led  him  about 
a  corner,  and  there  on  a  sun-warmed  slope 
of  April  bloomed  blue  hyacinths,  and  cro- 
cuses, and  tulips,  and  daffodils  and  jonquils. 

"  Are  they  not  lovely  ?  "  dropping  on  her 
knees,  forgetful  of  her  fragile  gown,  and 
bending  her  head  to  inhale  their  delicious, 
Spring-time  odors.  Then  she  lifted  her  eyes 
and  looked  abroad  over  the  garden.  Within  a 
month  or  two,  the  roses  would  be  in  bloom, 
old-fashioned  moss  and  cabbage  roses,  side 
by  side  with  all  the  smart  new  varieties  with 
their  high-sounding  names.  Over  there  would 
be  splendid  crimson  "  Jacks,"  and  flushed 
Gloire  de  Dijon  and  frail  Microphyllas.  The 
tiny,  purple-pink  Eglantines  would  bloom 
along  the  borders,  and  yonder  would  blow 
the  bright  yellow  roses  of  early  June, 
starring  their  full  bushes  of  delicate  green 
[273] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

leaves.  With  the  rose  fragrance  would  be 
mingled  the  strong  sweet  scent  of  the  thick- 
petalled,  brown  calacanthus,  their  rosettes 
of  bloom  hidden  away  under  the  cottony 
foliage.  And  there  would  be  rows  and  rows 
of  the  white  Madonna  lilies  and  beds  of  low- 
growing  mignonette. 

She  rose  to  her  feet  smiling.  It  had  never 
seemed  so  dear  to  her  before. 

"  You  never  have  looked  so  lovely  as  you 
do  to-day."  There  was  earnest  conviction  in 
the  Commonplace  Man's  voice. 

The  corners  of  Egeria's  mouth  dented 
with  pleasure. 

"  People  never  call  me  pretty,"  she  said 
discontentedly.  "  It  is  always  said  that  I 
am  brilliant,  clever,  tactful,  a  mistress  of 
finesse." 

"  I've  known  you  ever  since  we  were  boy 
and  girl  together,  and  you  were  always  beau- 
tiful, more  now  than  ever." 

Egeria  drew  a  sigh  of  rapture.  "  You 
don't  think  I — I — talk  too  much?"  an- 
xiously. 

"  As   if  you   could !  "   he   murmured   ten- 
[274] 


EGERIA'S  SECRET 

derly  with  absolute  sincerity  in  his  eyes  and 
smile,  "  I  am  always  wishing  that  you  would 
talk  more." 

One  might  have  thought  from  the  expres- 
sion on  Egeria's  face  that  she  was  listening 
to  the  harmonies  of  the  spheres. 

"  People  who  do  not  like  me  have  com- 
pared me  to  a  parrot,"  she  dropped  her 
voice  on  the  last  word. 

"  Cats !  "  with  emphatic  and  contemptu- 
ous scorn. 

She  slipped  her  hand  into  his. 

"  Egeria,"  pausing  in  the  path,  "  I've 
loved  you  more  years  than  I  can  count;  but 
there  have  always  been  so  many  rich,  and 
famous  and  agreeable  men  about  you,  and 
I  hadn't  anything  to  offer.  I  haven't  now. 
No  fortune,  no  great  place  in  the  world, 
and  I'm  as  commonplace  as  Castilia  thinks 
me;  but  you're  my  first,  last,  and  only  love, 
Egeria,  and —  '  he  stopped  short. 

She  shook  him  by  his  shoulders.  "  Are  you 
never  going  to  say  it  ?  "  she  cried  vexedly. 
"  For  goodness'  sake,  go  on  now  you  have 
at  last  begun." 

[275] 


THE  BIRD  OF  TIME 

"  It  takes  courage,  Egeria,  to  ask  you, 
who  have  everything,  to  marry  me." 

"  Dear,"  she  lifted  his  hand  and  laid  her 
cheek  against  it,  "  if  you  are  commonplace, 
which  you  are  not,  it  is  probably  offset  by 
the  fact  which  you  alone  of  all  the  world 
know — the  one  secret  which  you  have  held 
as  a  stick  over  me  all  these  years — that  I 
am  fifty." 


THE    END 


[276] 


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